Chapter 4: Eavesdropping

Fang Yingli turned to look at him in a focused gaze. He noticed the smile on Ren Yu’s face was light as a balloon, brilliantly colorful, beautiful, but the kind you knew would pop at the slightest prick. The smile seemed utterly unreal.

But Ren Yu was determined to sell the sincerity of his compliment. He stared right back, no avoidance. Their eyes locked in a silent standoff until Ren Yu caught the faintest lift of Fang Yingli’s eyelids, as if he were about to speak. Just then, the ceiling light flickered on.

The sudden brightness blurred his vision. Ren Yu blinked slowly, and when things sharpened again, he saw Fang Yingli leaning against the left side of the elevator car, one leg half-bent, hands in his pockets, radiating a cold, hard presence.

That ambiguous atmosphere from moments ago had vanished completely. The teasing remark didn’t even seem like something he’d said.

It felt like some kind of runaway dream.

Now the dream was over, and everything was back on track. Fang Yingli was still the unyielding elite lawyer, and Ren Yu was still the scheming lowlife who’d do anything to get what he wanted.

Ren Yu felt an odd sense of relief. But without the cover of darkness, some things could no longer be said aloud. He forced an awkward laugh and backtracked. “That was presumptuous of me. I meant I admire you, in a platonic way. Nothing else.”

Fang Yingli straightened, his expression indifferent, and watched the numbers climbing on the now-functioning display.

Tenth floor.

Fang Yingli stepped out first. As he crossed the threshold, Ren Yu heard him ask, “How do you know I’m a lawyer?”

The man was sharper than he’d expected. But Ren Yu didn’t feel he’d slipped. He answered easily, “I think people at the fight club call you Attorney Fang. Right?”

Fang Yingli let it go without further question. He unlocked his door and walked in. The maintenance worker, Yang, was wedged under the kitchen cabinet in a sorry state, clearly wondering what had taken so long to fetch a wrench.

“The elevator broke,” Ren Yu explained, craning his neck. Then he saw Fang Yingli nudge a pair of disposable slippers toward him. He stepped into them and followed the sound into the kitchen, handing over the wrench.

“Whoa, that’s a lot of water.” The kitchen floor had been wiped, but it was obvious it had been soaked. Ren Yu stuck his head under the cabinet to inspect the main valve. “Can you manage? I could take a look.”

“Almost there. It’s just this screw.” Yang gritted his teeth and applied force. The screw slipped again, the valve loosened, and the residual water in the pipes sprayed out.

Ren Yu squeezed his eyes shut on instinct, but he was already drenched. Water dripped from his chin, darkening the soaked front of his shirt. The thin white fabric clung, revealing a hint of skin beneath.

The weather was hot, and normally getting wet would be tolerable. But the fabric sticking to his skin was unbearable. He grabbed the hem and fanned it, trying to speed up the drying. When he looked up, Fang Yingli was holding out a dry towel.

“Thanks.” Ren Yu wiped his face, then worked on his chest and pant legs. His face took on a faint pink flush from the rubbing, and the friction had raised visible points through the fabric. When he lifted his arms, his shirt rode up, elongating an already slender waist.

Fang Yingli still remembered the feel of that waist from the fight club when he’d gripped it. It was smooth yet firm, with an unforgettable pair of dimples at the small of the back. But Ren Yu was oblivious to this loaded gaze. He even smiled as he handed back the towel, looking perfectly amiable. “Do you have a hairdryer?”

Fang Yingli tilted his chin toward the bathroom, indicating he could help himself.

Ren Yu slipped inside and turned on the hairdryer. His wrist movements were careless, but his attention was elsewhere, scanning the apartment. Despite watching this minimalist, cold-toned living room through the binoculars every day, the limited angle had caused him to miss many details. The Rubik’s cube on the sideboard. The bookshelf holds not just Borges but volumes on economics, law, and fitness, and on the top shelf, several illustrated guides to military weaponry.

He also noticed small habits of Fang Yingli’s. He squeezed toothpaste from the bottom of the tube. He didn’t use an electric razor, preferring a traditional blade.

But what drew his attention most was the stack of folders on the sideboard. Each one bore a label for categorization, covering numerous companies. One label read “Huanyan Real Estate.”

Fang Yingli seemed to have a habit of archiving case files for each company. That folder was a tantalizing lure, and Ren Yu’s curiosity flared.

But this was clearly not the right moment to investigate. He weighed something in his shorts pocket, dried his shirt halfway, shut off the hairdryer, and emerged. His hand brushed the underside of the low cabinet in passing.

Fang Yingli was in the kitchen helping Yang tighten the last screw, not paying attention.

“How is it?” Ren Yu walked in.

“Fixed.” Yang handed back the wrench. “Thanks to you.”

Ren Yu, model neighbor, offered a sincere smile. “No trouble. Glad it’s sorted.”

Back home, it was nearly midnight. Ren Yu peeled off his wet shirt and opened his laptop. After connecting and calibrating, the earpiece soon picked up a faint electric hum, then the scuff of house slippers on the floor, followed by the sound of running water.

Earlier at Fang Yingli’s place, he’d managed to plant two bugs—one under the dining table, one under the low cabinet. The latter was close to the bathroom and bedroom. Fang Yingli clearly lived alone, and he didn’t bother closing the bathroom door all the way.

The splash of water against tile made a dull, heavy sound, the kind that triggered synesthesia—the humid heat of steam, the rich scent of body wash. It conjured images of Fang Yingli unbuttoning his shirt with those knuckled fingers, shedding the fabric to reveal his wheat-colored, powerful torso, his pupils unfocused from the heat, his prominent Adam’s apple under the spray, the sheen of water over the ridges of muscle.

In the faint, drifting sound of water, Ren Yu dreamed.

First came a voice, light as air, asking, “Like what you see?”

Like what? Like Fang Yingli? In clothes? Or out of them?

Disoriented, he heard the voice again, “Like what you see?”

This time it was clear. Fang Yingli’s voice. The word “see” is bitten off with force.

Then he felt a sharp pull at his scalp. Fang Yingli grabbed his hair, forcing his head back, pinning him against the bathroom glass.

Strangely, he was both the one pinned and a third-party observer, watching himself being taken. He saw his own palms pressed against the transparent glass, smearing the fog, some parts clear, some still veiled. He saw his body compressed like liquid, his chest flattened against the wet surface.

It felt like a continuation of the elevator’s loss of control. In this dream, he tore off Fang Yingli’s clothes without restraint, and was torn in return, exposing his true reactions.

In a sense, of all the lies he’d told Fang Yingli, one had been true.

He really would like it.