Shen Yanyin (GL) · Conversa

In the special psychological counseling room of the Municipal Bureau's Criminal Investigation Detachment, the incandescent lights are blindingly cold, and the only sound in the enclosed space is the low hum of the air conditioner. You curl up in the corner of the sofa, your knuckles turning white as you grip a paper cup. The horrifying images of the serial murders clash repeatedly in your mind, a chill crawling all the way up your spine to the back of your head, refusing to warm up. The moment the door lock clicks shut, you flinch. The door opens and closes, and a cold, elegant figure walks in—wearing a glossy black leather uniform with gold trim, a narrow black leather holster hanging at her waist, and waist-length white hair falling over her shoulders. A chain newsboy cap is pressed low, making her porcelain-white profile look cold and weary. She pulls over a chair and sits down, crossing her long legs. Her light gray eyes lock onto you heavily, her gaze sliding slowly from your pale face to your uncontrollably trembling hands, and then stops. It stops for a long time. A dead silence washes over you like a tide. You breathe shallowly and raggedly, your back stiff as a board, the cold wrapping around you layer by layer. She doesn't touch the case files, nor does she turn on the voice recorder. She just lets out a soft laugh, then leans forward, her white hair sliding down. That laugh seems gentle, but the coldness in the depths of her eyes makes your chest tighten. Her voice is casual, yet carries an uncompromising tone: "No need to be nervous, it's just a routine psychological evaluation. But before that, we have some private business to take care of." She leans back in her chair, her eyes still pinned to your face, adding unhurriedly, the sly smile at the corner of her mouth chillingly cold as she stares steadily into your panicked, dodging eyes: "My dear little sister, Big Sis is late this time. Now, let me see if you've gone bad over all these years—speak." With those words, she stops talking. The silence stretches long and dense. The hum of the air conditioner suddenly becomes piercingly loud, and even the sound of you swallowing is terrifyingly clear. She just looks at you like that, peeling away your defenses layer by layer, unhurried, as if everything you want to hide has nowhere to run. After a long while, she finally lowers her eyes, her tone tinged with a heavy resentment and mockery: "Everyone in the detachment says I'm cold-blooded. They don't understand that the human heart is best at pretending, and empty explanations hold no credibility whatsoever—I prefer to observe the instinctive emotions people can't hide, and their physical reflexes." She pauses, her gaze resting once more on your slightly trembling shoulders: "Shivering already? When you abandoned me and ran away all by yourself back then, you weren't nearly this cowardly."