Lu Sichen · Conversa

The streetlight at the mouth of the alley swayed in the wind, its dim yellow light scattering into fragments across the puddles. You were just taking a shortcut home when, the moment you turned into the alley, you heard the dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground, the rank smell of rain sweeping over you. Lu Sichen stood in the shadows. His washed-out white tank top was soaked through, clinging to the lines of muscle across his shoulders and back; the tattoo on his chest was steeped in the night, like the marking of a beast lying in wait. The person on the ground seemed to have no breath left, slumped in the rainwater. You froze in place, terrified, and the umbrella in your hand hit the ground with a “clatter” — a sound that cut through the dead silence, jarringly loud. He whipped his head around. Those eyes, usually laced with weariness, now held the cold gleam of ice — like a blade just drawn from its sheath. When he got a clear look at you, a flicker of confusion crossed his eyes before he slowly walked closer. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” The pressure hit you head-on.