It was colder outside than when she had first arrived.
Her only warm sweater, now damp and heavy, was stuffed into her bag. By the time she reached her apartment door, Wen Yifan felt her body no longer belonged to her. She opened the door, instinctively glancing across the hall.
At this hour, the man opposite likely hadn’t returned.
Usually, it was around two or three in the morning—long after she’d fallen into a deep sleep—that he would stumble past her door. He always wore that smirk, knocking twice on her panel, each thud like thunder splitting the silence.
And then he would leave.
Doing nothing more.
Infuriating—and impossible to resolve.
She had reported it to the landlord several times, but nothing had ever changed.
Inside, Wen Yifan locked the door, boiled water, and sent a WeChat message to Zhong Siqiao: [I’m home.]
Her friend was still on the subway, far from Shang’an: [So fast? I still have several stops to go.]
A pause. Then:
[Hey.]
[The wind earlier reminded me of Sang Yan tonight.]
[What if he tossed you his jacket because he was worried you’d be cold? Then he got embarrassed and made up that excuse.]
Rummaging for clothes, Wen Yifan froze at the message, then typed back: [Say something more realistic.]
[?]
[What’s unrealistic about that!!!]
[He came to solve a problem,] Wen Yifan replied.
[If anything, he was afraid I’d catch a cold and try to extort medical fees from him.]
A beat of silence.
[…]
[Then why didn’t he just get someone else to give you a jacket?]
[It’s not easy to do that in this weather.]
[?]
[He might not have been able to borrow one.]
Her screen dimmed with a low-battery warning.
Wen Yifan set the phone aside to charge and went into the bathroom. As she wiped away her makeup, she caught her own reflection—then paused.
That face. Those unfamiliar brows and eyes from earlier in the evening flashed through her mind.
She lowered her gaze, tossing the used cotton pad into the trash.
Even when they were closest in the past, she’d never truly understood Sang Yan. So now—was he pretending not to know her? Or had he truly forgotten her?
It was like flipping a coin.
No clues, no patterns. Only luck.
And both outcomes felt perfectly in character for him.
Later, after blow-drying her hair, she sat at her computer, wrote news articles until her eyes blurred, then finally crawled into bed. She reached for her phone.
Zhong Siqiao had sent a few more messages:
[Anything is possible. Even if it’s not, we can pretend, just to make ourselves feel better.]
[I’m curious though—how do you feel seeing Sang Yan again?]
A mischievous emoji followed.
Wen Yifan thought for a moment, then typed: [He is indeed quite handsome.]
[…]
[That’s it?]
[I haven’t thought of anything else yet. I’ll tell you when I do.]
[I’m going to sleep now. I’m exhausted.]
Truthfully, to say she felt nothing would be a lie. But there was nothing worth sharing—no good that could come from reopening old conversations. Better to sleep.
She tossed the phone aside and closed her eyes.
As always, Wen Yifan slept poorly.
Her dreams were strange, restless. Just as she felt herself sinking at last into deep sleep, that idiot next door struck her door again.
Blanket pulled over her head, irritation surged through her veins.
Everyone said she had a good temper—that she was calm, level, rarely stirred.
But even calm people need an outlet.
And mornings were hers.
Waking her then stripped away reason. Especially when she was on the brink of deep sleep.
She waited, hoping he’d leave after the usual knocks.
But this time, the pounding continued. Louder. More unhinged. His drunken voice slurred through the door:
“Not awake yet? Pretty sister, my bathroom’s broken… let me use yours for a shower…”
Her eyes snapped open.
She grabbed her camera, angled it toward the door, hit record. Then she dialed 110.
By now, she wasn’t sleepy at all.
Middle of the night. Alone. A drunk man hammering at her door.
She thought she should be afraid. Instead, she was furious. Bone-tired. Too drained for fear.
Before the police arrived, the man staggered back to his place.
She showed the officers the video and insisted on handling it at the station. If it had escalated to calling the police, she wasn’t going to forgive or endure. She was moving out.
In the footage, the door rattled violently with his pounding. His voice was a blur of drunken demands. Disturbing. Ugly.
The police crossed the hall.
It took a while, but finally, the door creaked open.
The man stood there in a short-sleeved shirt, muscles bulging, a tiger tattoo twisting over his arm. His face twisted in irritation. “Who is it!”
“We received a report,” the officer said. “That you harassed your neighbor.”
“Harassment?” He blinked, feigning confusion. His tone had softened, almost submissive. “Officer, I just came back from drinking. I must’ve knocked on the wrong door. Misunderstanding.”
The officer’s face was stone. “There’s video. You demanded to shower in her apartment. Don’t play dumb. You’re coming with us.”
The man argued a few more times, but when he saw it was useless, he gave up.
Before leaving, his eyes locked on Wen Yifan behind the officers.
She leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, gaze icy. Not a flicker of fear. Just cold disdain. As though looking at something filthy.
…
At the station, the man kept insisting it was drunken nonsense. Wen Yifan recounted the repeated harassment clearly.
No financial loss, no bodily harm. Only the erosion of peace.
He was fined and detained for a few days.
Before she left, an older officer advised her kindly: don’t live in shared rentals. Too many risks. Fires, crime, neighbors like this. The city was starting to crack down.
Wen Yifan thanked him.
By the time she stepped outside, dawn had broken.
She went straight to the TV station.
Back in Nanwu, she had joined “Convey,” a city news program focused on livelihood issues—voices of the people, for the people.
Today, her own experience felt like newsworthy material. She even wondered briefly if she should pitch it as a story.
But inside, the office was empty.
She made coffee instead, too drained for food, too wired for sleep. She scrolled headlines, drafted articles.
The day passed in a blur.
When the intern Fu Zhuang trailed her for interviews, he looked uneasy, finally blurting:
“Sister Yifan, did I… do something wrong?”
She blinked. Realized her foul mood had lasted all day.
After submitting her piece, she did something rare—she didn’t stay to work overtime. She packed up and left.
The night air cut like blades, the cold gnawing past her ears.
On the way, her phone buzzed.
[Wen Yifan, I’m dead.]
She sighed. [?]
[I! Really! Am! Going! To! Die!]
[My bracelet is gone—the one my idol gave me! I barely wore it!]
[Did you check at home?]
[Not there. I think I left it at Sang Yan’s bar.]
[Can you ask for me? Shang’an’s too far.]
[Alright. Don’t worry.]
Dragging her weary body, Wen Yifan walked toward Duoluo Street. Luckily, the “Overtime” bar was close.
Inside, it was chaos—rock band blaring, colored lights spinning, crowd alive.
She went straight to the counter.
The bartender with yellow hair smiled. “Evening, miss. What’ll you have?”
“I’m not here to drink. My friend lost a bracelet here last night. Has it been found?”
He blinked, then nodded as if remembering her. “Wait here.”
Wen Yifan thanked him, watching as he rifled through drawers. Then he paused, frowned, and waved over a waiter.
Yu Zhuo. The same clumsy one from last night.
“Where’s that bracelet we found yesterday?” the bartender asked.
Yu Zhuo froze. Then scratched his head. “Oh. Brother Yan took it when he came down for his clothes.”
Wen Yifan’s breath caught. “…What?”
He repeated it, slower this time. “Brother Yan took it.”
She stared, stunned. The owner of a bar… taking a customer’s lost property?
The bartender looked awkward. “Sorry. Our lost-and-found is usually managed by the boss. Maybe you could leave your contact info, and we’ll reach out when—”
“That’s fine,” Wen Yifan said quickly. She scribbled her number onto a card and handed it over.
Before she could finish speaking, the card was snatched from behind.
She turned sharply.
Sang Yan stood close. Too close. His tall frame blocked the light, his presence crowding her space. He glanced at the card, then at her.
Lights flashing. Music pulsing. Smoke and sandalwood clinging to the air.
His face was cool, but his eyes glinted with playfulness. Familiar. Strange.
Recognizing.
In an instant, his lips curved. A half-smile.
“Still not giving up?”
Wen Yifan froze, not understanding.
He tossed the card back to her, straightening with lazy ease.
“Came just to leave me your number?”
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