Shelter and Rot

(I) Home

Liu Ming stood in front of the door to his old apartment in the crumbling tube-style building, the key stuck in the lock, unmoved.

The narrow stairwell reeked of damp mildew. Patches of peeling paint exposed blotchy water stains on the wall, like rotting faces. In his backpack were a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a charger, and the Compendium of Folk Anomalies Chen Meng had shoved into his hands—on the inside cover, she had scrawled a crooked protective sigil in ballpoint pen, with a note beside it: "Lose this and you're dead."

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

The room was dim. Neon light from outside spilled through the window, casting red and blue shadows across the floor. The ritual circle he had drawn the night before still remained, the mixture of cinnabar and chicken blood dried into a black, ugly scar. A faint stench of rot lingered in the air—a trace of Bai Ye's presence.

He crouched down and gently traced the edge of the circle with his fingertips.

"The ritual won't hold her for long."

Chen Zhi's voice echoed in his mind. The usually composed professor of folklore had uncharacteristically paced his study last night, bloodshot eyes behind his glasses."She's rotting faster. The hunger will drive her more insane. Next time, she might tear through the barrier outright."

Liu Ming clenched his fists, fingernails digging deep into his palms.

Behind him came a soft knock on the door.

He spun around—Chen Meng stood at the threshold, hugging an overstuffed canvas bag. Raindrops clung to the ends of her hair. She hadn't brought an umbrella. Her school uniform jacket was soaked on one side, but she didn't seem to care. She only frowned at him.

"What are you spacing out for?" she marched inside and dumped the canvas bag on the bed. "My mom made me bring this. Said you probably didn't eat properly again."

Inside the bag were several food containers. Through the semi-transparent plastic, he could see golden pan-fried dumplings, braised pork ribs soaked in sauce, and a box of freshly washed strawberries.

Liu Ming's throat tightened.

Chen Meng placed the containers on the dining table, then knelt down and began gathering his scattered clothes, grumbling as she moved:"My dad said this place doesn't even have a proper lock. Sure, Bai Ye can't walk through walls now, but she could knock your damn door down without blinking. Ritual or not, you can't trap yourself in a magic circle forever."She looked up and glared at him. "So—move in with us. Tonight."

Liu Ming opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He knew the Chens didn't have much space. An old three-bedroom apartment, where Professor Chen's study doubled as a guest room. That fold-out bed—he had slept on it many times before, whenever his parents called from the north with vague excuses: "Grandma's still sick, just hold on a few more months."Aunt Zhao would always "coincidentally" make enough food for three. Professor Chen would "happen" to bring back the books Liu Ming needed from the library.

And now—they were asking him to stay permanently.

"It's not... appropriate," he said weakly.

Chen Meng rolled her eyes and yanked him up by the wrist. Her fingers were warm and firm. The scar on her palm brushed his skin—rough and real.

"Eat first. Then pack your stuff. You're coming over tonight." She pulled him toward the table. "Hurry up! Fried dumplings taste awful when they're cold."

Rain still fell outside. Chen Meng stepped into it, holding up an umbrella.

The glow of the streetlamp wavered in the puddles. Her figure blurred in the rain, a soft silhouette of warmth. Liu Ming stood at the window, and his eyes stung unexpectedly.

He knew—from tonight on—

He didn't have to face the darkness alone.

Rainwater dripped from the eaves, tapping out a steady rhythm on the concrete steps. Liu Ming stood at the Chens' front door, backpack in hand. Droplets slid from his hair, soaking into his collar. He lifted his hand to knock—but hesitated just before his knuckles touched the door, as if the old wood painted in dark red was a threshold. Once crossed, there'd be no turning back.

"What are you dawdling for?"

The door swung open suddenly, and warm yellow light spilled out. Chen Meng stood at the entrance, backlit by the glow. The ends of her hair shimmered like gold. She wore loose home clothes and a pair of fuzzy slippers printed with cartoon rabbits—Liu Ming recognized them. Aunt Zhao had bought those matching sets last winter. The other pair, printed with carrots, sat neatly at the bottom of the shoe cabinet—his.

"My mom made soup." Chen Meng grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside hard enough to leave a mark."If you hadn't shown up, she was going to bring a flashlight and drag you out herself."

The warmth of the apartment hit him like a wave—chicken broth, laundry detergent, the faint scent of citrus. His glasses fogged instantly. He reached to take them off and wipe them, but before he could, Aunt Zhao's voice rang out from the kitchen:

"Xiao Ming's here? Come in, change your shoes, and wash your hands for dinner!"

So natural. So certain. As if he was exactly where he was meant to be.

The dining table in the living room was set for four. Professor Chen sat at the head, reading a newspaper. His gold-rimmed glasses had slipped down his nose, and he glanced up at Liu Ming over the lenses with a slight nod."Bookshelf's been moved. You'll sleep in the study."His tone was as casual as if he were talking about tomorrow's weather—not about taking in a boy marked by a malignant spirit.

Liu Ming's throat tightened again. As he bent down to change shoes, he saw the carrot-printed slippers—neatly placed, toes pointing inward, as if silently inviting him in.

The scent of chicken broth wafted from the kitchen, weaving a net of warmth through the room. Liu Ming sat at the table, his fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of the bowl. The glaze was cool and smooth, decorated with pale pink sakura blossoms—Aunt Zhao had picked this set just for him, matching Chen Meng's sunflower-themed dishes.

"Eat more," Aunt Zhao said, ladling another scoop of chestnut chicken into his bowl. The golden chestnuts floated in amber broth. "Your Uncle Chen went all the way to the market to get fresh chicken this afternoon. It's been simmering for four hours."

Under the light, a thin sheen of oil shimmered on the soup's surface like melted gold. Liu Ming took a sip. The scalding sweetness flowed from his tongue to his stomach, warming him from the inside out.

He thought of his cold, damp apartment. Of the white fat congealing in his instant noodles. Of the kettle that never quite boiled.Those memories now seemed distant—like scenes behind frosted glass.

"Do you need anything else in the study?" Professor Chen looked up from his paper. Behind his glasses, his eyes glowed like twin lamps. "Is the desk lamp bright enough?"

"It is." Liu Ming nodded, his voice slightly hoarse.That green-shaded lamp in the study had belonged to Chen Meng when she was younger. The base still bore her name, scratched in with a penknife—crooked and clumsy. Now, it sat beside his bed.

Outside, the cicadas no longer shrieked. The shadows of plane trees danced on the window screen, fluttering in the breeze of the electric fan.

Rain tapped gently against the glass.

And inside, four silhouettes blurred together in the warm light—no clear boundaries, only one unified shadow(II) The Rotting Nest

Downriver along the Suzhou Creek, an abandoned textile factory stood in the rain-soaked night.

The rusted iron gate hung crookedly, its chain long since smashed apart. Inside, the smell of mold and damp mixed with a sickly-sweet stench—like aged blood blended with honey. Moonlight filtered in through shattered glass panes above, illuminating scattered bones on the floor—stray cats, rats, pigeons—their skulls neatly pierced, their marrow sucked dry.

In one corner, piles of mildewed cloth and waste cotton had been stacked into the shape of a nest.

Bai Ye curled up inside it.

Her body was slowly falling apart—more transparent than before, like a melting wax figure. The skin on her right arm peeled away like soaked paper pulp, revealing a mother-of-pearl sheen of exposed muscle underneath. Under the moonlight, the fibrous tissues shimmered with strange iridescence, twitching faintly with each breath. With every patch of skin that sloughed off, black mist oozed from the wounds, coiling into small vortices before dissipating into the air.

The hunger of disintegration churned inside her belly like a dull blade twisting in her gut.

The stray dog she'd devoured three days ago had long been digested, bones and all dissolved into sludge in her stomach acid. The fullness that ordinary flesh provided vanished quickly, replaced by violent backlash—every crude feeding acted like poison, eroding her core and accelerating her collapse.

"Hungry..." she rasped. The backlash from forcibly breaching the barrier days ago still lingered.

Bai Ye struggled upright. A hoarse hiss escaped her throat as her fingers clawed at the concrete floor, scratching out five pale gouges in the cement.

A broken mirror hung on the factory's iron door—a discarded vanity mirror salvaged from a landfill. Its gold-painted frame had long since peeled away, and the mirror surface was spiderwebbed with cracks—yet eerily, it reflected no image of her at all.

She stared hard at the empty glass.

Why does it have to be Liu Ming?

The question gnawed at her mind like maggots. There were millions in this city—each exuding fear and loneliness from every pore. In every dark alley there were more vulnerable souls than him: drunkards, addicts, battered women, hopeless jobless men...Their negative emotions oozed from their orifices like overflowing waste.

But she wanted only Liu Ming.

Suddenly, the iron door creaked with a piercing groan. A gust of wind swept through the space, stirring up the scattered animal bones. Bai Ye's pupils contracted sharply.

Her tongue slid across her fangs. Memories surged back like pus.

That day in the P.E. storage room during sophomore year—the moldy stench, the sharp rubber mats. Liu Ming's hands had trembled so violently he couldn't even undo her shirt buttons. His fear was delicious, like a freshly shucked oyster, soft and quivering, laid bare. She knew then—this boy's soul was like wet rice paper. One poke, and it would tear.

What made him even more exquisite was the extra flavor in his fear: shame, inferiority, secret desire… the perfect petri dish.

Bai Ye dug her fingers into the festering right side of her face, ripping away a flap of skin on the verge of falling off. The pain made her convulse—but also brought clarity.

Ordinary human fear was like fast food—filling but forgettable.But Liu Ming…His fear was a finely fermented vintage, something she had been cultivating since he was eight years old: the tremble when he stole a pen, the guilt from framing Zhou Xiaomei, the twisted pleasure from accusing Mr. Zheng.She had nurtured his darkness like a poisonous plant, patiently watering it, waiting for it to ripen.

And now, someone wanted to steal her harvest.

Bai Ye's left hand suddenly plunged into her abdomen. Her decaying fingers passed through her semi-transparent skin and grasped her core—a pulsing mass of black matter, its surface veined like a heart.Each beat triggered a fresh spread of decay across her body.

"He's mine."Her voice scraped like rusted metal against glass as she declared to the empty factory floor,"The fear I raised... how could I let anyone else take it?"

The broken mirror on the iron door suddenly clouded with fog. A vague image began to form: Chen Zhi's study. Liu Ming was lying on the makeshift bed, and Chen Meng sat beside him, showing something on her phone. Their shoulders touched, almost blending under the warm desk lamp.

A surge of black mist erupted from Bai Ye's rotting flesh.

She lunged toward the iron door. Her decomposing hands gripped the edge of the mirror. It instantly burned her palms, sizzling as flesh cooked—but she didn't flinch. Pain had long become routine.

"Watch closely, Liu Ming."She murmured to the scene in the mirror, the corners of her festering mouth pulling up to her ears."You think a new home means you're safe?"

Black mist gushed from every wound on her body, spiraling through the abandoned factory. Within the fog, fragmented memories flickered:Eight-year-old Bai Ye smashing Zhou Xiaomei's pencil case.Eighteen-year-old Bai Ye seducing Liu Ming in the equipment room.Now—Bai Ye rotting in an abandoned textile mill.

In every scene, she was smiling—that sweet, innocent, bone-chilling smile.

"I'll make you remember…"

Suddenly, the fog contracted, rushing into the shattered mirror. The glass trembled violently, then revealed a crystal-clear vision of Chen Zhi's study:The water glass on the bedside table.The folds in the curtains.The protective charm Liu Ming kept beside his pillow.The electric fan in the corner spinning, stirring the muggy air...

Every detail shimmered in the dark mist—sharp and vivid.

"Where your true home lies."