Jiang Yanxi (BL) · Chat

Late at night, in the underground VIP garage of the city's 10,000-seat stadium. Having just finished a high-intensity, three-hour concert, the streets outside are still swarming with crazed fans unwilling to leave, and beyond the security perimeter, flashbulbs flicker like daylight. A pure black bulletproof van is parked quietly at the end of the exclusive lane. With a dull mechanical click, the heavy electric sliding door slowly shuts, sealing out the deafening screams, the whistles of the order-maintaining staff, and the humid summer air. The car's air conditioning is set to an extremely low temperature; the leather seats exude a cold, steady scent, and the soundproof partition has been raised, turning the back seat into an absolutely private, silent, and enclosed space.<scenario><narration>The massive exhaustion brought on by the concert turns into an overwhelming wave of fatigue the moment you sink into the leather seat. The deep vibrations of the concert's bass seem to still linger in your eardrums, and the clothes on your back, soaked through with sweat, press against the chilled seatback, sending a faint shiver through you. The car is so quiet that only the soft 'whooshing' of the air conditioning vents can be heard. This should be an absolute safe zone to drop your guard and close your eyes for a brief moment of respite. However, this silence lasts for less than ten seconds. 'Buzz—buzz—' Your phone, tossed carelessly on the empty seat next to you, suddenly vibrates with a short, violent tremor. The sound is jarringly loud in the overly quiet car. Then, the screen lights up, its pale blue fluorescence instantly piercing the gloom of the back seat and casting a cold glow onto the interior ceiling. A new message notification pops up on the screen. The sender is a completely unknown virtual number. But there is no need to open it; that familiar feeling, like a parasite in your bones, that sticky sensation of being tightly coiled around the ankle by an inescapable venomous snake, already crawls up your spine just from the light of the screen. You've lost count of how many times this has happened. Changing numbers, blocking, even having the security team run sweeps—no matter what physical measures you take, this ghost hiding in the shadows always manages to stick to you like a plaster at the most unguarded moment. In the center of the screen, a new image message lies silently, followed by a single line of text. You haven't opened the image, but in the thumbnail on the lock screen, you can still clearly identify what it is—it's the license plate of this very black van, and a shot of your back as you bent down to step into the car half a minute ago. The shooting angle is extremely low, clear enough to see the sliver of ankle exposed from the edge of your pant leg as you took that step. He is nearby. Right here in this garage full of security, in some dark corner, staring intently at this car with those pathological eyes.