A faint sound echoed, and Yan Chuan quickly dove into the room.
The apartment seemed unaffected by the strange black mist.
The lights were still on, and Yan Chuan sighed in relief, only to freeze in shock.
In the corner… there was a pile of densely packed sheet music manuscripts.
It was Tang Zhen’s room.
This revelation left Yan Chuan puzzled; he couldn’t understand why his room was not affected.
As he stood in a daze, footsteps approached from the corridor.
The footsteps grew louder, and Yan Chuan began to feel anxious, looking around for a place to hide.
His gaze finally landed on the bed in the corner.
The small bed was a foldable piece, slightly lifted off the ground and covered with thick sheets.
Yan Chuan gauged its size and thought he could fit inside.
Once this idea struck, he found it hard to suppress it; the footsteps were getting closer, and without a choice, he lifted the sheet and dove underneath.
The space under the bed was cramped.
Being a single bed, the gap between the bed and the floor was even smaller, making it easier for Yan Chuan to squeeze in due to his slim frame.
The sheets hung down, leaving him only able to peer out through the faint light filtering in.
He curled himself up, trying not to take up too much space, carefully drawing himself inward.
Suddenly, his wrist brushed against something cold.
Yan Chuan paused, using the dim light to see the shape of what he had touched.
It was a tin box.
It resembled a box Tang Zhen had once shown him, claiming it was for holding photographs.
The unassuming tin box was kept clean under the bed, as if it was taken out daily.
Taken out every day?
A sudden intuition struck Yan Chuan, who pulled the tin box closer, holding it in his palm.
Photos, what kind of photos could they be?
His hand trembled slightly as he opened the small tin box.
Pictures spilled out one after another.
They all revealed themselves before Yan Chuan.
He picked up the nearest photo, straining to see its contents through the dim light.
The person in the photo… was it really him?
However, the printed images showed him with closed eyes, seemingly asleep, his cheeks buried in a soft pillow. The angles were oddly intimate, revealing swaths of soft, pale skin.
When had he worn that outfit?
Yan Chuan’s mind went blank, trembling hands reaching for the rest of the photos.
They were all of him.
He wore a gaudy red spaghetti strap that was both short and small, failing to cover even the base of his plump thighs, with soft flesh spilling out across the white sheets.
A low neckline highlighted a slight curve on his otherwise flat chest.
His arms, pale and delicate, had clear fingerprints visible on his slender wrists.
Evidence of someone squeezing them.
The content of the other photos was even more shocking.
Not only was he forced into wearing the tacky spaghetti strap, but he was also posed in suggestive ways, exposing the inner thighs being gripped by a man’s large hand, soft flesh visible between the fingers.
One photo was even more outrageous, taken so close to his face. Long fingers had intruded into his lips, his wet tongue pulled out a small length, pitifully pressed by the man’s fingers, glistening saliva coating it.
Yan Chuan abruptly closed his eyes.
He was both anxious and angry; the fear he’d felt while fleeing turned into shame and annoyance as he wondered when these photos had been taken.
He couldn’t divorce the matter from Tang Zhen.
Yan Chuan recalled that he had only briefly sat in Tang Zhen’s apartment, and he found the tin box in Tang Zhen’s room.
He struggled to remember that Tang Zhen had invited him over for a task and he had indeed agreed; he hadn’t even drunk the water Tang Zhen offered and had been cautious throughout.
He just felt that time flew when Tang Zhen played the piano.
Could it have been then?
Yan Chuan bit his lip, the edges of the photos were pressed tightly in his grip.
Suddenly, the door swung open.
Yan Chuan gasped again, forgetting about the photos, as he shrank further under the bed.
The footsteps were right nearby; Yan Chuan even spotted a pair of shoes hovering at the edge of the bed, seemingly searching for something.
He held his breath, beads of sweat forming on his smooth forehead.
Please don’t find him…
Time stretched on; Yan Chuan’s breath caught in his throat until at last, the footsteps began to retreat.
The owner of the footsteps seemed assured enough to take a few steps towards the door, clearly intending to leave.
Yan Chuan let out a small sigh of relief.
Bowing his head, he aimed to gather the scattered photos when suddenly the sheet was lifted.
A startled, pale little face emerged.
Fringes stuck to the cheek, the lips drained of color from fright.
Along with the heap of tawdry photos Yan Chuan had been discovered with, they were carelessly scattered on the floor.
Both were now laid bare before the person who had lifted the sheet.
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