A faint trace of terror stretched across her bewildered face, dragging from the corner of her eye down to the edge of her mouth.

You see, this is a common trick in classic horror films—rather than filming the terrifying thing itself, they film the character’s reaction. Turns out it works better that way, so it stuck. Of course, it might also be because the crew was short on budget. The senior laughed as he finished speaking, as if he had just told an awkward joke that even he found amusing. His gaze slowly shifted from the television screen to her, his face brimming with self-satisfaction and pride, as though inviting her to voice her admiration.

She wasn’t in the mood. She had never been interested in the kind of self-important talk men used to show off. Even this recent series of dates with the senior had been merely a gesture of thanks. She had never been someone who could easily turn others down—especially not when someone had just done her a favor. The so-called favor was that he had finally secured a publication date for her new book, something she had delayed for four years without success. As for how he did it, the senior naturally had his own connections—he held a senior position at a fairly well-known publishing house. She could easily imagine it: just a few casual remarks at a dinner table and the other party would give in, while she had been chasing this for four years with no reply. So this time, the senior got it done. But in her heart, she felt no particular gratitude. Instead, what came to her suddenly was anger—anger at those ugly faces making judgments based on who you are. Still, having the book published was a good thing. She didn’t need to trouble herself with those foolish middlemen. What truly bothered her now was the awkwardness of going on a date with the senior. She hadn’t expected there to be such an implication behind his help—not until they were face-to-face, celebrating the book at dinner, and the senior suddenly brought it up. What had started as a celebration turned into a confession—it had the feel of a trap. She didn’t know how to respond and ended up saying, We can give it a try.

That was where the problem lay. The man had absolutely no sense of boundaries. Including the celebration dinner, they had only gone out three times, and now he had invited her to his home. She didn’t know what to do, but somehow, she had agreed—as if the words had slid out of her mouth effortlessly, without even the muscles of her face resisting. Whether it was curiosity, gratitude, or something else entirely, she had no idea. She just vaguely felt that this outing was somehow the right decision. When she looked at the senior’s radiant smile as he invited her, she clearly saw that he too had a filthy core. She felt nauseated but forced herself to endure it, returned his smile, and nodded slightly, saying yes. She had already made up her mind—that after this time, she would be firm. She would refuse all his gifts and invitations, shut him out of her life completely. Thinking about it now, even accepting his help might have been a mistake. But what had happened had happened, and she didn’t want to dwell on it. She would treat it as a kind of social observation, something she could use as material for her next book. It wasn’t a solution, but it offered a little consolation.

She was now curled up on the large sofa in the senior’s living room, twisting her body to avoid his coarse hand reaching toward her. Of course she heard the senior’s commentary, but she wasn’t in the mood to give him the response he wanted. She just slightly shifted her body and tilted her head to show she was listening, occasionally glancing over to see his reaction. Sure enough, the senior, realizing he had embarrassed himself, awkwardly turned his gaze back to the television, once again absorbed by the black-and-white images flickering on the screen.

They were watching Psycho. She had seen it as a child on TV. These old black-and-white films always made her sleepy, lulling her into dreams. But the senior clearly liked it. He was watching with great interest, occasionally taking on the role of narrator, offering commentary with ghostly smiles when familiar scenes appeared—he seemed to have memorized them. It gave her chills. She shrank her body further, resting her chin on her knees, hoping to steady her trembling heart. It must have been the senior who suggested watching a movie. Somehow, they ended up choosing this one. In her memory, she hadn’t agreed to it at all. She didn’t even remember selecting a film. She vaguely realized that she had forgotten how she even got here—only that some invisible voice had led her to this place.

When the senior took the disc from the shelf, he handled it carefully, though he didn’t seem to care much. The plastic film on the DVD case was torn at the corners. Years of dust had turned the once-elegant cover design into a dull gray, like a tarnished mask over an already grim character, making it even more terrifying and mysterious. Just seeing it made her uneasy. But soon, her attention was drawn away by the seldom-seen DVD player in the modern home and the huge TV hidden in a wall recess with its dangerously sharp edges. All of it had been summoned by the silver-toned, curved remote in the senior’s hand. He pressed the round, slightly dumb-looking button, and the whole house transformed—as if summoned into a sacred temple.

Yes, the place was luxurious—perhaps even decadent. The red-painted hardwood floor gave a solid thud with each step. Overhead hung a lavish French chandelier, like a treasure stolen from Versailles. Porcelain pieces from unknown dynasties, each with its own floral patterns, were respectfully arranged on inverted trapezoidal shelves protruding from the wall, encased in glass domes and lit from beneath by spotlights that made them gleam. Anything imaginable in the world of excess could happen here. This was a place born of extravagance—and only extravagance could sustain it. And the senior, crouched in front of the retro disc player, might well be the very center of this excess.

All of it disturbed her. She couldn’t make sense of this endless display of splendor. She simply watched and waited. The senior finished setting things up. The television emitted clear black-and-white images, and the surround sound enveloped her from all sides.

It was all so abrupt. She recalled that, as a child, black-and-white films always flickered with static and vertical white scratches, the sound always broken—like a phonograph needle trudging through snow of varying depths. But now, the experience was completely different. She couldn’t explain it. What she was watching didn’t feel like a film, but some foreign thing pretending to be a film, flaunting its superiority. There was no atmosphere to lull her to sleep. She felt shaken.

The senior seemed to have noticed the disjointed thoughts racing through her mind—and along with them, her lack of interest in both the movie and his gratuitous commentary. So he tried to lighten the mood with a few deliberately quirky, playful remarks.

“I’m telling you, for lectures like this, I should be charging an appearance fee,” he said lazily, his voice arrogant. As he spoke, his hand kneaded her shoulder. Her clothes were too thin, and the calluses on his palm, hardened like crust, pricked sharply at her skin. The fabric was already soaked through by the sweat from his palm. As he kept rubbing, the heat burned like fire, evaporating the sweat and pressing the cloth tightly against her skin, sealing off all air.

She felt uncomfortable and snapped back to herself. She shifted her body slightly, trying to escape the hand clamped on her. But the senior’s hand held fast like an eagle’s claw.

She turned her head and met the senior’s gaze, locking eyes with those lifeless pupils that had long since stopped showing emotion. She opened her mouth slightly, but not a single sound came out. It was the senior who spoke first. “Bored?” he asked. “We could do something else.”

She hadn’t been paying attention to their interaction, true—but she wouldn’t say she was bored. Her own thoughts were more than enough to fill the silence. It was his relentless advance that made her feel powerless, made her feel more and more like a prisoner trapped in this house.

The brown leather sofa was like a crocodile with its mouth agape, swallowing her whole. But the sofa fit her back so snugly, so comfortably, that despite her disinterest in the movie or the occasional small talk, she was reluctant to move her body elsewhere in this eerie mansion—fearing she would only be met with another kind of opulence to dazzle her eyes. For the first time, she felt that pleasure itself could be a form of suffering.

“No, the movie is quite good,” she said. “Maybe I’m just too tired today, can’t really get my spirits up.” As she spoke, she stretched her arms above her head in a lazy yawn, fingers interlocked. “Came up with a new character today,” she added with a smile—the first time she had smiled in this place.

The senior, pleased, returned his signature beaming smile. He picked up the wine bottle he’d been holding midair and said, “Not much left. Let’s finish it together. You don’t seem to be feeling anything yet.”

Before she could reply, the bottle clinked against the rim of the glass, and a stream of clear, murky amber liquid flowed steadily into the wine glass. The senior picked up both glasses and handed one to her. Clink—another soft tap. A few fine droplets splashed out, slid down the side of the glass, and dripped onto the floor. No one noticed where they landed.

They had first met over drinks too—though it was beer that time. A foolish club gathering, where drunken voices shouted as people swayed and bumped their massive mugs together. Beer splashed everywhere, thick and sticky.

The senior was a year above her, president of the club, and had organized the whole event. It was a film club, one of those that screened obscure movies every week. She wasn’t a member; her roommate had dragged her along to the dinner, hoping she could help gauge whether the senior—who had just confessed his feelings—was trustworthy. She knew it was a thankless task but had gone anyway. She had always disliked such gatherings—messy tables under the dim shimmer of colored ceiling lights, casting a greasy haze over everything.

As the party wound down, her roommate had already grown slightly drunk, head lowered, gasping in deep breaths while gently rubbing her own throat. The senior was slowly stroking her back, trying to help her breathe. The furrow in his brow seemed to reflect the discomfort brought on by the alcohol.

She had spent nearly the entire evening observing, finding nothing suspicious. She thought she should probably say a few words—either to show concern or to give a reminder. So she got up, took a few steps toward her roommate, held her by the shoulder, leaned in and whispered a few words beside her ear. Just as she looked up, the senior spoke first. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “She says you’re a great student, always helping her. You two are best friends.”

He leaned forward, squeezing his body between the seat and her roommate, trying to be heard clearly over the noisy music and voices.

Huh? What did that mean? The atmosphere felt suddenly tense, as if she were the outsider, as if her appearance had intruded on something private between them.

She smiled faintly, with a bit of breath in her voice. “That’s the first time she’s mentioned me,” she said. “And you probably know why I’m here—to help my good friend do a little vetting. Hope you don’t mind.” She said it half-jokingly, staring into the senior’s eyes.

He laughed, mouth wide open, loudly. “I know, of course not. I’m glad, actually. You’re welcome to join our club activities too. We don’t have much popularity yet—you’d help fill the seats.”

She didn’t know how to respond, so she just smiled a little wider and nodded slowly. “I don’t understand film,” she said. “Don’t know much about it. Might even say I kind of dislike it. Is that still okay?”

“No problem at all. We have regular discussions—you can say whatever you want. Or nothing at all.” As he spoke, the senior quietly withdrew the hand that had been on her roommate’s back. He leaned a little closer to her face, as if examining every open pore. She leaned back to avoid his heavy breathing. “I’ll come if I find the time,” she said.

It was getting late. If they didn’t hurry, the dorm gates would be locked. She gathered her things and helped her roommate do the same. But when she stood up to support her roommate, she realized she could barely walk in a straight line. She had drunk more...