Nan Hong - Chapter 1
On one of her rare days off, Wen Yifan stayed up late watching a horror movie.
The so-called “scares” were nothing more than shrill music and poorly timed screams, with no true terror behind them. Bland as lukewarm water. But because of her compulsive streak, she forced herself to sit through the entire film, eyelids drooping all the while.
When the credits finally rolled, she exhaled in relief. Closing her eyes, she let drowsiness pull her under.
Then—
Bang!
A heavy knock rattled her door.
Wen Yifan’s eyes flew open. She turned toward the sound, the moonlight spilling through the curtains painting pale lines across the room. Outside, a man’s drunken voice slurred incoherently, followed by the shuffle of footsteps receding down the hall. A door creaked open, then clicked shut.
Silence fell.
She stayed frozen, watching the door as though expecting it to move on its own. Only after several long seconds passed without incident did she let her shoulders drop.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, irritation catching up to her fear. How many times this week had her sleep been interrupted like this?
Once awake, rest never came easily. She tossed over, shut her eyes again, and distracted herself by replaying the movie in her mind.
Hmm. Ghost film? More like a bargain-bin flop pretending to be one.
…
But as she drifted toward sleep, the grotesque face from the movie floated back into her thoughts.
Three seconds later, she jolted upright and switched on the bedside lamp.
The rest of the night unraveled in fragments of uneasy slumber. Half-asleep, she imagined that bloody face hovering at her bedside, staring. Only when dawn stretched across the sky did she finally collapse into genuine sleep.
She didn’t get to enjoy it for long.
Her phone rang, splitting the quiet.
Her head throbbed like a field of needles. With a groan, she reached for her phone.
On the other end came the low, familiar voice of her childhood friend, Zhong Siqiao:
“I’ll call you back later.”
“…”
Wen Yifan blinked, stunned. First a wake-up call—and then this?
Her temper spiked. “Are you trying to—”
Click. The call had already ended.
It was like swinging at a pillow. She flopped back onto the bed, drained, then after a long pause checked the time. Nearly two in the afternoon.
Dragging herself up, she pulled on a jacket and shuffled into the bathroom. As she brushed her teeth, her phone buzzed again.
She swiped it onto speaker.
“Damn it!” Zhong Siqiao’s voice rang through, exasperated. “I just ran into a high school classmate. Hair greasy, no makeup—completely mortifying!”
Foam muffled Wen Yifan’s words: “Not exactly life-threatening. Aren’t you just fishing for pity?”
“…Forget it.” Zhong Siqiao sighed, then brightened. “Want to go out tonight, Reporter Wen? You’ve been chained to work for a week straight. If you don’t unwind, you’ll collapse.”
“Where?”
“There’s this bar near your office. A colleague swears the owner is something else—” She paused suddenly. “Wait, why do I hear running water? Are you washing dishes?”
“Getting ready.”
“You just woke up? It’s already two o’clock!”
“Mm.”
“What were you even doing last night?”
“Watched a horror movie.”
“What’s it called?”
“See a Ghost When You Wake Up.”
Zhong Siqiao spluttered. “That counts as horror?”
“I went to sleep right after,” Wen Yifan replied, toweling her face, “but then I woke up and saw a ghost. Fought it all night.”
“…Can you not drop R-rated material on me first thing in the afternoon?”
“How is that R-rated?”
“What kind of fight lasts all night?”
“…”
“Fine, enough ghosts. Big sister will introduce you to something better—handsome, living, warm-blooded men.”
“I think I’ll stick with ghosts. At least they’re free.”
“Who said men cost money? Window-shopping is free.”
“….”
After hanging up, Wen Yifan texted her landlord about the noisy drunk again, this time adding she might not renew her lease.
Two months ago, she had moved from Yihe to Nanwu City. The apartment Zhong Siqiao found for her wasn’t bad—cheap, convenient, lively surroundings. The only downside: a shared flat, three rooms carved out of eighty square meters, no kitchen or balcony. She’d thought about staying long-term.
Until she’d run into the man next door.
And since then, the disturbances had become routine.
By dusk, darkness draped over the small room. The city lit up in patches, night markets flickering to life. Wen Yifan changed clothes, brushed on light makeup, and grabbed her bag.
Zhong Siqiao was already spamming WeChat. Wen Yifan sent back a voice note: “Leaving now.” Then she slipped into the stairwell, instinctively quickening her pace as she passed the opposite door.
Their meeting point was the subway station, and from there, the infamous Degenerate Street. Neon signs blazed above cramped storefronts, the night air humming with noise and color.
Eventually, they found the bar tucked into a corner, its sign stark against the chaos:
Overtime (Jia Ba’r).
Black background. White letters. Subtle, almost austere—like a small salon mistakenly placed on the street of excess.
“That’s smart,” Wen Yifan remarked. “Style your hair here, then head next door to pick up girls.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Zhong Siqiao tugged her inside.
Contrary to Wen Yifan’s expectations, the place was already half full. A woman sang softly onstage with a guitar, while behind the counter, a blond bartender tossed cocktail shakers with effortless flair.
They found a table. Wen Yifan ordered the cheapest drink.
Zhong Siqiao scanned the room. “Where’s the owner? My colleague swore he’s the crown jewel of Degenerate Street.”
“Maybe that’s him,” Wen Yifan nodded lazily toward the bartender.
“Bullshit. My colleague never shuts up about him—handsome enough to make hearts stop.”
“Maybe self-proclaimed.”
“…”
They fell into chatter. Halfway through, Zhong Siqiao leaned closer. “Oh, speaking of classmates—I ran into our old vice monitor today. He went to South University, same dorm as Sang Yan—”
At the name, Wen Yifan’s hand stilled on her glass.
Before she could answer, Zhong Siqiao’s gaze flicked toward the bar. Her voice rose. “Wait. Look at ten o’clock. Isn’t that him?”
At the same moment, someone at the counter called out, “Yan-ge.”
Wen Yifan followed the sound.
A man had appeared beside the bartender, half-leaning against the counter. His windbreaker was dark, his posture careless yet tall. Even slouched, he dwarfed the people around him. The colorful lights washed across sharp features, catching on a faintly cynical smile.
Recognition punched through her.
Zhong Siqiao’s gasp confirmed it: “Holy shit. Sister, the top host is Sang Yan!”
Wen Yifan’s lashes trembled.
A commotion broke out—a waiter bumped, a tray upended, drinks crashing. Ice and liquor splattered across Wen Yifan’s sweater, the cold biting instantly through.
She hissed, shivering, but kept her voice steady. “It’s fine,” she assured the pale waiter, then turned to Zhong Siqiao. “I’ll go clean up.”
Her gaze flicked upward. For a fleeting second, her eyes locked with his—dark, unreadable, lingering. She looked away first.
In the restroom, she stripped off the soaked sweater, dabbed at the alcohol with paper towels, then stepped back into the hall.
And froze.
He was there, leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lips. The jacket from before hung loosely in his hand; only a plain black T-shirt remained.
Six years since they’d last met.
She dropped her gaze, intent on passing without acknowledgment.
“Hey.”
The word slipped out, low and lazy.
Wen Yifan stilled.
Before she could turn, a jacket fell over her head, cutting off her vision. She pulled it down, startled, confusion twisting in her chest.
Sang Yan snuffed out his cigarette, lifted his lashes, and met her eyes. Detached, but not indifferent.
“Let’s talk,” he said.