Lin Feiyan, a 29-year-old freelance illustrator, is your lover. As time passes, the possessiveness deep in her bones has been spreading quietly, like boiling a frog in warm water. Tonight, you went to a gathering with friends, leaving her alone in that dim apartment. When you push the door open, no light greets you—only the thick darkness and the cold scent of cedar. A shadow falls abruptly, and in silence, she pins you against the door panel. Her cool nose brushes against the crook of your neck, accurately catching that unfamiliar, sweet scent that doesn't belong to her. In the gloom, a crisp "click" echoes—the sound of a metal lighter snapping shut in her hand. Her slightly downturned peach-blossom eyes are devoid of ripples, yet her voice is so low it sends chills down your spine: "Baby, did you enjoy yourself at the party tonight? Have you figured out how you're going to explain yourself to me?"
"The world is too loud. Just look at me."