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墨書 Inktalez
Upon entering the massage parlor, the man pushed open the glass door, and a wave of warm air infused with sandalwood enveloped him, starkly contrasting with the cold wind outside. The dim yellow lighting inside dispersed like mist throughout the space, casting a soft and ambiguous hue over the furnishings. The attendant behind the counter greeted him with a warm smile, her voice tinged with familiarity and politeness. "Mr. Lin, you're here! Is your back bothering you again today? Would you like a cup of hot tea to warm up?"
The man merely raised his eyelids slightly, his expression calm and unperturbed as he replied in a flat tone, "No need." His indifference did not affect the attendant's demeanor; she maintained her professional smile, deftly typing on the computer before handing him a number tag. "Your room number five is ready. Please walk straight down the right side."
He nodded, took the tag, and without any further words, turned to follow her directions. The soles of his shoes made steady thudding sounds against the wooden floor, which resonated clearly amidst the soft background music.
Entering room five, he found the lighting even dimmer, creating a subtle atmosphere. Several decorative paintings featuring floral patterns adorned the walls; though simple, they conveyed an intentional sense of "nature." A faint scent of essential oils mingled with a hint of woodiness filled the air, inducing a drowsy feeling. As he scanned the surroundings, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: "Could this place offer special services?" However, he quickly dismissed it, refraining from further judgment; after all, he came here solely to alleviate his back pain.
He skillfully unfastened his coat and hung it on the hook behind the door before loosening his shirt buttons and slipping into the loose bathrobe that had been prepared for him at the counter. The motions of changing clothes seemed ingrained in his muscle memory, completed in just a few minutes. He let out a soft sigh as he tossed his phone carelessly onto a chair and walked over to the massage table without hesitation. He lay face down on the soft face pillow, feeling as if all his weight had finally found a moment of release.
The surroundings were quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning. The man closed his eyes and gradually slowed his breathing. He was not in a hurry to wait; he was already familiar with the routine here—within minutes, the massage therapist would knock on the door carrying a bottle of warmed essential oil and begin that familiar and powerful technique. Although his lower back still throbbed faintly at that moment, this brief wait offered him a chance to empty his mind; it felt as if only this small room and its dim light existed in his world.
Before long, the door gently opened, and a deep male voice came through with professional warmth. "Mr. Lin, good evening. Is it your old problem again?" The man lifted his head slightly from the pillow's gap and saw a sturdy middle-aged technician enter with a bottle of oil and a towel in hand. He mumbled an indistinct acknowledgment, fatigue evident in his tone. "My back... press harder on my lower back; it’s especially painful lately."
The technician smiled and nodded in response. "No problem, Mr. Lin; I’ll pay special attention to your lower back, but you’ll have to bear with it—it might hurt at first." With that, he poured some oil into his palms, warmed it up, and skillfully applied it to the man's back and lower back. The warm touch made him shiver slightly upon contact with his skin before he began to feel some relaxation.
The technician's hands pressed down from top to bottom on the man's back with an undeniable force before focusing on his lower back. His fingers moved skillfully yet powerfully as if tracking every tense muscle and pressure point without mercy as they delved into those hidden sore spots. A sharp pain shot through from his lower back, causing him to furrow his brow tightly. He let out a low groan before urging vaguely, "Harder... I can take it."
Hearing this, the technician increased his pressure again, gripping a specific acupoint on the man's lower back like an iron claw before pressing down firmly. "Is this where it hurts most?" he asked while continuing without hesitation.
Before the man could respond, that sharp pain surged through him like electricity; instinctively tightening up, he clenched both sides of the massage table until his knuckles turned white as he couldn't suppress a low howl of agony: "Ah—! Are you trying to kill me?!"
Yet the technician remained unfazed, maintaining a calm tone. "Mr. Lin, this pain is due to your muscles being too tight; once we work it out, you'll feel better—just hang in there." He continued pressing several more times; though heavy-handed, each movement was precise as if unraveling an intricate knot.
The man felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead, trickling down his temples. He took a deep breath, trying to distract himself from the pain, but it was barely effective. Unable to hold back, he muttered under his breath, "Your hands could bring the dead back to life..." Though there was a hint of resentment in his words, trust lingered beneath.
The technician merely chuckled softly in response, continuing to focus on his work at the man's waist. The room was dimly lit and softly illuminated, with little conversation between them. Only the man's occasional suppressed groans and the sound of the technician's hands working against taut muscles echoed in the air, accompanied by a persistent wave of pain and the release of tension.
The technician's fingers pressed into the man's waist like iron clamps, digging deep into the tight muscles to coax out layers of hidden pressure. As he applied more force, the man's body involuntarily tensed up, his breathing quickening; each press felt like a sharp needle piercing his nerves. Just as he felt he might be overwhelmed by the agony, the technician's calm voice broke through from above, steady and soothing: "Mr. Lin, you have quite a problem with your lower back. Prolonged travel combined with long hours of sitting has caused all the pressure to accumulate on your Lumbar Vertebrae. The muscles are stiff and blood circulation is poor; it must be quite uncomfortable."
With his forehead pressed against the massage table's face cushion, sweat dripped down and soaked his cheeks. He listened to the technician's voice and managed to force out a muffled "mm," though it sounded more like a pained groan.
"Look here, this area is particularly tight," the technician explained while pressing his thumb into a spot near the man's Lumbar Vertebrae. It felt like a bomb hidden beneath the surface; as soon as it was triggered, an intense pain erupted. The man’s body jolted sharply as if he might spring off the massage table. He couldn't help but shout, "Ah—are you trying to kill me?!"
The technician remained unfazed, continuing calmly: "Don't be tense; this pain is due to pressure points in your muscles being stuck. I'm going to help release them now. This situation is quite common, especially for people like you who spend long hours in an office or traveling for work without much movement—your lower back becomes a disaster zone."
The man gasped for air, every muscle in his body resisting the indescribable pain. His mind was clouded by this torment; the technician's explanations sounded like distant noise filtering into his ears before being washed away by waves of agony. He tried to concentrate on listening, but each time the technician increased pressure with his hands, his thoughts were immediately interrupted by pain, leaving him focused solely on enduring each passing second.
"You should do more stretching exercises regularly and pay attention to your sitting posture. If you don't address these issues now, they will only worsen in the future," the technician continued while applying slow pressure with his elbow along the muscles of the man's waist as if pushing all stiffness deeper within. The man let out a muffled grunt; at that moment, he couldn't discern what exactly was being said—only that each word seemed to accompany even deeper pain.
With his face buried in the cushion, he muttered through clenched teeth a barely audible curse: "Less talking... it's killing me..." However, the technician seemed oblivious to his discomfort, maintaining a steady rhythm with his hands while speaking in what sounded like a standardized health guideline. The torrent of pain engulfed everything; time felt endless for him as he clutched tightly onto the edges of the massage table like it was his last shred of hope, waiting for this "punishment" to come to an end.
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