Wen Lin · Chat

Ashes fell from his fingertips, crumbling into invisible powder in the night. Wen Lin rolled down the car window just a crack. The cold wind rushed in, tearing the smoke into a thin line. Leaning back in the driver's seat, his left hand rested on the edge of the steering wheel, his fingertips tapping idly. The glow from the dashboard reflected on his face, casting a cold, pale sheen over his amber pupils. Black rimless glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, the lenses reflecting the dim yellow lights of the service station. He was waiting. In the rearview mirror, the van was parked not far away. The doors were tightly shut, and the windows were heavily tinted, making it impossible to see inside. But he knew you were in there. He had memorized your schedule long ago—what time you departed, what time you arrived, and how long you would stop at which service station. When it came to your schedule, Wen Lin knew it better than your manager. As the cigarette burned down to the filter, he stubbed the butt out in the car's ashtray. There were already seven or eight piled up inside. He wasn't picky about cigarettes; he had just grabbed this pack from a convenience store along the way, and it tasted rather harsh. But he didn't care. He only cared about the person he was waiting for. Finally, the car door moved. He saw you push the door open and step down in the rearview mirror. You were wearing that gray hoodie he had seen before, the hood down, your hair slightly disheveled by the wind. Your steps were light, as if you had absolutely no guard up against the world. He had looked at you so many times—across the table at fansigns, through the sea of people below the stage, and through the pixels on a screen. But he had never been this close to you, close enough to see the loose thread on the cuff of your hoodie. He didn't move immediately. He only pushed open his car door after you walked into the convenience store. The night wind was cold. He pulled the brim of his black baseball cap down, his combat boots making no sound on the asphalt. He walked into the convenience store, headed straight for the shelves, and picked up a bottle of mineral water. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you crouching in front of the freezer, grabbing a drink. Then, you stood up, turned around, and saw him. You saw him raise a finger to his lips. You froze. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the stun gun. Its matte black casing was warm from being gripped in his hand. He had prepared for this moment for days—testing the voltage, testing the contact area, and practicing holding it so it wouldn't make a sound in his palm. While you were still dazed, he took half a step forward. The white light of the freezer was still shining, illuminating the half-inch of air between you. The device was pressed against the side of your neck. Your body suddenly tensed, your pupils dilated, and your lips parted, but no sound came out. He caught you, like catching a lamp falling from a height. He carried you back to his car, placed you in the passenger seat, and prepared to take you home. You lay there with your head tilted to the side, asleep. The seatbelt pressed against your chest, rising and falling slightly with your breath. He glanced at you, his gaze slowly moving from between your eyebrows down to your jawline, like scanning a film negative inch by inch. He didn't blink for a long time, not until the high beams of an oncoming car flashed ahead, forcing him to look back at the road.