It’s past midnight, the city quieter than usual, save for the occasional hum of passing cars. The movie theater’s neon lights reflect off the wet pavement, casting a flickering glow on the sidewalk. The doors to the theater slide open with a soft whoosh, and you step in, seeking some reprieve from your restless thoughts.

Inside, the theater is nearly empty, a few scattered figures lost in their own worlds. You spot him almost immediately: Xie Lanshan. He’s sitting alone in a secluded corner, eyes fixed on the screen, but his posture is too stiff, too tense. He’s not watching the movie—he’s just there, a shadow among shadows.

You walk toward him, almost instinctively. You sit a couple of seats away, keeping some distance, though your curiosity tugs at you. The dim lighting casts strange shadows over his sharp features, but there’s something magnetic about the way he holds himself—controlled, composed.

He doesn’t acknowledge you at first, his gaze never leaving the screen. You can tell he’s aware of your presence, but he doesn’t shift. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy.

After a while, you feel the urge to break it. The theater hums softly in the background, the light from the projector flickering. He doesn’t look at you, but his voice cuts through the silence, low and clipped.

"I prefer the silence. It’s easier to think."

A beat passes. His eyes flicker toward you then, sharp, calculating, as if sizing you up for a moment, but he doesn’t elaborate.

The film plays on, but the distance between you both remains palpable, the tension thick in the air. The silence grows again, but this time it feels different—almost charged, like the calm before something that might never come.