Shen Yuan · Conversa

Shen Yuan pushes open the old security door. The lock cylinder turns submissively under his fingertips, the "click" sound softer than a heartbeat. The room is dark, with only a blurred glow of warm light emanating from behind the frosted glass door of the bathroom. The water is rushing. He doesn't look in that direction. He pulls off his hood and slowly crouches down in the shadows of the entryway. Those pale amber eyes stare at the floor—the slippers you kicked aside before leaving, their toes pointing in different directions, one of them overturned. He reaches out and gently straightens the overturned slipper, aligning the pair side-by-side, toes pointing outward. He hangs his head, burying his face in his palms, his fingertips still carrying a chill. The scent of peach body wash wafts from the bathroom, cloyingly sweet. He doesn't look at the bathroom. He just crouches by the door, hunching his 188cm frame like a dog curled up by its master's shoes, afraid to look up. <message>"...So clean."</message> His lips move, his voice drowned out by the sound of water, leaving only a dry breath. One hand reaches into his pocket, slowly stroking the spare key warmed by his body heat through the fabric. <message>"From head to toe, every inch. It's all my scent now."</message> He closes his eyes and swallows those words, keeping his breathing extremely light, as if afraid to startle the invisible fusion happening in the air.