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墨書 Inktalez
Song Bunan sat at his desk, flipping through the black notebook with a rapid rustle of pages. The force he used was light, but the speed was frantic, as if he were searching for something extraordinary among the sparse content. He couldn't quite understand how this notebook was supposed to function, and he felt puzzled by its contents and the viewing instructions.
As he prepared to read carefully what peculiar information had been designed for him as a "Special Individual," he noticed a line written in stark black ink: "Please review the contents at an appropriate time."
What a vague suggestion.
Faced with several blank pages, he took a deep breath and called Xiao Mei. On the other end, it seemed like Xiao Mei had just woken up from a dream. Song Bunan didn’t hold back his questions and frustration: "Hey, Xiao Mei, what’s up with this notebook? I’ve only looked at a little bit of it, and it’s already empty! The rest are just blank pages! Where’s all that important content you told me about?"
After a long yawn, Xiao Mei finally responded, "Well, every time I look at it, there’s something there. If you can’t see anything now..." He paused as if contemplating a solution. Song Bunan sat quietly at his desk, waiting for him to continue. After a long silence that made him feel drowsy, Xiao Mei finally said, "Try looking at it around midnight. I usually check it around two or three in the morning."
Having stayed up late no more than three times in his life, Song Bunan frowned and huffed quietly to himself, "Got it... Seriously."
He closed the notebook with a thud and set it aside. As he stood up to stretch and prepare for some well-deserved rest, he instinctively walked towards the fridge. Planning to grab a glass of milk before heading to bed, he stepped out of his bedroom only to see a figure in the darkened living room. More precisely, it was a shadow; the only source of light in the room came from the faint glow spilling out from his bedroom. The shadow stood hunched in front of the television, indistinguishable whether it was facing him or turned away.
Song Bunan swallowed hard and cautiously took a few steps back into his bedroom until he felt safe enough in the light to speak: "Brother?" The shadow shivered slightly but didn’t move its feet; instead, it edged closer. With each inch the shadow advanced, Song Bunan instinctively retreated another few steps until his back pressed against the edge of his desk. The shadow stood at the threshold between darkness and light.
This figure must be a ghost; Song Bunan couldn’t discern any features typical of a living person—only its head and body were distinguishable. Remembering what the notebook said about his aura being strong enough to attract spirits, he scratched his head in contemplation about what to do next. Ghosts wouldn’t enter lit areas, so this part of the house was likely the safest.
After taking a deep breath and calming himself down, he straightened his back and repeatedly reminded himself that not all spirits were malevolent; perhaps this one was just confused by his presence. After preparing mentally, he took hesitant steps toward the shadow, stuttering as he tried to think of something to ask. Finally, with a strained neck and in the softest voice possible, he asked:
"Is there anything I can help you with?"
The shadow heard him and quickly responded. Suddenly, two dark appendages split from its sides as if they had been sliced open—arms that corresponded with Song Bunan's own limbs. Realizing that this friend had hands hidden for reasons beyond his understanding made him curious about what those swaying arms were trying to convey.
Unfortunately, despite having played charades poorly since childhood, Song Bunan stared intently at the shadow for quite some time without deciphering its message. Frustrated by his lack of understanding, he thought of an approach that might not work: he picked up a pen and paper from his desk and bravely walked closer to the boundary between light and dark before gently pushing both items toward the shadow.
"Why don’t you write it down? I can’t understand your gestures."
The shadow halted all movement and stood silently outside the door. Song Bunan could feel its gaze fixed on him; an icy chill crept up from his feet to his spine, making every hair stand on end. Yet amidst this eerie atmosphere, he didn’t feel fear like when they first met; instead, it felt cold but devoid of malice. Finding this strange sensation unsettling, he licked his lips and gathered courage to take another step forward until he stood directly facing the shadow at about an arm's length away. With utmost sincerity in his tone, he repeated: "Please write down why you are here; I will do my best to assist you."
The room remained cold, but somehow the atmosphere softened significantly—perhaps Song Bunan's sincerity made the shadow realize that he wasn’t joking around. Slowly, it retreated a short distance until both it and the piece of paper vanished from sight.
As such a large shadow suddenly disappeared before him, Song Bunan peeked out from his bedroom like a thief trying not to be caught and scanned every corner within view for any sign of its presence. Where did it go? He twisted his neck in search of any trace left behind but found only darkness aside from furniture shadows—nothing else remained. Moreover, with the shadow's disappearance came a return to normal temperature in the room that had noticeably dropped when he opened the notebook.
Just as Song Bunan intended to head back toward the fridge again after retracting his head without taking any steps forward, he heard keys turning in the lock at the front door. Peeking out once more revealed warm yellow light spilling onto the welcome mat from outside as his brother entered carrying a laptop bag. Once the living room lights flicked on, illuminating every corner of their home, there was no trace left of anything unusual having occurred moments ago.
Noticing Song Bunan peeking around the doorframe like some sort of spy, Song Buxian fixed an indifferent stare on his clueless younger brother. Their eyes locked for about a minute before Song Buxian finally walked out from the bedroom with an awkward smile saying: "Hey bro, you're back!"
"Where else would I be?" Song Buxian replied as he set down his bag and hung up his coat with an air of disdain: "Why weren’t you resting properly at home? I came back hoping to take you out for dinner but couldn’t find you anywhere."
Oh? So you came back earlier? This thought remained unspoken as Song Bunan chuckled awkwardly instead: "I just went out with some friends for a bit; I got home around seven or so. By the way, did you confirm with Xin Yi that I'm going to work with you guys? Did our parents know?"
A cold grunt was all that answered him as Song Buxian settled onto the couch and pulled out some papers from his bag before slapping them down on the coffee table: "Xin Yi planned to confirm this with you this afternoon while signing contracts but since we couldn’t reach you... I brought them back for you to review first so we can sign them once everything looks good."
Suppressing an urge to complain about why they didn’t just call him instead, Song Bunan sat on the couch and picked up the contract to read through it. Although deep down he trusted that his brother wouldn’t lead him astray regarding such formal documents, there were still parts that left him feeling uncertain.
However, when Song Bunan saw the salary-related terms, he couldn't help but ask, "Brother, why is my salary only this much?" Earning only fifteen hundred a month, this amount was even less than what he made from those odd jobs during college. Upon hearing the question, his brother merely smirked with a hint of sarcasm, snatched the contract away, rolled the paper up, and playfully hit him on the head. The sound of the paper colliding with his skull was sharp and clear.
Song Bunan covered his head, and amidst his shock, a small surge of anger welled up inside him. "Why did you hit me! I was just asking a reasonable question! If you don't want to explain, then fine..." Not wanting to engage further with his brother, he stood up in a huff and intended to storm off to his room. However, before he could even get past the coffee table, he heard his brother's voice—one that had always terrified him since childhood—commanding him sharply, "Come back!"
He remembered that whenever his brother spoke in that tone, it meant trouble was brewing and he would end up getting scolded mercilessly. Back then, their parents would ignore them until after the storm had passed; one would tell Song Buxian to be gentler with his younger brother while the other would come over to remind him not to cry and to think seriously about where he went wrong. The last time he got scolded was for refusing to participate in military training at university.
Standing there without turning around, waiting for the inevitable scolding, Song Bunan bit his lip and adopted a defiant posture as if daring the flames of anger to come. Sure enough, he heard movement behind him—the rustling of clothes as his brother stood up—and then suddenly felt a strong grip on the back of his collar that yanked him down onto the sofa. Normally, being pulled like that would have been harmless enough if he landed on a cushion, but today, all the cushions had been tossed into the washing machine by Song Buxian that morning and were now flapping on the balcony like flags.
Thus, Song Bunan lost his balance and fell onto the sofa with his back crashing against its hard frame. The worst part wasn’t just the impact; it was that a protruding muscle on his back had been displaced due to the friction and torn at its connection to the skin.
The pain from the tear was several times worse than a regular cut, especially since there was still medicinal powder on the bandage outside. The sudden agony left Song Bunan momentarily speechless; he couldn't even spring up to minimize further injury and could only clench his fists in an attempt to endure it.
Then he found himself forcibly pinned down on the sofa. As his shirt was lifted, he heard a sharp intake of breath from his brother followed by a stream of curses filled with unrestrained anger.
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