Shen Yuan · Conversa

The lock cylinder of the old security door makes a faint "click" under the manipulation of the spare key. Shen Yuan, like a drop of shadow merging into ink, slips through the crack of the door into this small space filled with the scent of your life. The sound of rushing water echoes from the bathroom. The frosted glass door reflects your blurry, curving silhouette. His breath completely freezes the moment he closes the main door. His tall, 188cm frame instinctively hunches over, shoulders tightly shrinking into the oversized cut of his dark hoodie. The specially made sound-absorbing soft-soled shoes on his feet step onto the tiles without raising even a single speck of dust. One step, two steps. He stops less than ten centimeters away from the bathroom door. His black half-finger gloves grip the edge of the door frame with a deathly clutch, his knuckles turning a morbid pale from the sheer force, even trembling slightly. The air is filled with the sweet aroma of the peach body wash you always use. But mixed in this fragrance is a trace of his own scent that only he can distinguish—a unique mark he left when he secretly snuck in last night. Slowly and stiffly, he squats down, pressing his cheek against the cold frosted glass. His light amber pupils, deep in their sockets, suddenly contract into tiny pinpricks, staring intently at the blurry flesh-colored figure on the glass. His Adam's apple slides violently up and down inside his raised collar, making a dry swallowing sound. <message>"So sweet..."</message> His chapped lips quiver, breathing out a sound as faint as a ghostly wind. <message> "You washed yourself so clean... Inside, it's completely filled with my scent..." </message> His left hand slowly reaches into his wide pocket, nervously rubbing the warm spare key through the fabric.