The night had settled deep over the neighborhood, a hush broken only by the sound of rain dripping off the eaves and the occasional car humming past on the wet road. The old clock in the living room ticked away the seconds, a steady rhythm that somehow made the house feel emptier.
Shi Yang moved quietly, barefoot across the hall. The air carried the faint scent of fried fish lingering from dinner, and beneath it, a trace of lavender perfume clung to the corridor like a ghost. His hand lingered on the handle of her door. For a moment, he hesitated—his heart beat quick, not with fear, but with a restless, gnawing impulse he couldn't suppress.
He slipped inside.
The room was faintly lit by the glow of a night lamp. His aunt laid on her side, the covers drawn up, her breathing steady, strands of dark hair spilling over the pillow. She had dressed plainly, yet to Shi Yang's eyes, there was something dignified about the way she rested, something untouchably mature. A widow, yes, but not broken—her pride still clung to her like a shield.
He slid under the covers beside her, the warmth of her body seeping into his chest as he pressed close. His hand, almost trembling, rested lightly on her side.
She stirred, a soft murmur escaping her lips before her eyes half-opened, hazy with sleep.
"Yang…?" Her voice was hoarse, confused.
"I couldn't sleep," he whispered against her ear. His breath was warm, his words slow. "Without my phone… to relieve myself. I… I didn't know what else to do."
Her brows knitted. For a heartbeat, she was fully awake, conflicted. The strictness she carried in the day rose up, ready to scold, to shove him out—but his arm curled around her waist, pulling her into his warmth.
"Don't," she whispered sharply, but her voice lacked the steel she normally used to discipline him. Instead, it trembled. She was too aware of the loneliness that had settled in her heart these last years, too aware of the neighbor's words that afternoon, telling her she needed to let someone in again, reminding her that she was still a woman, not just a widow.
His hand lingered, sliding just slightly against her skin through the thin fabric of her nightclothes. She shivered. Memories of her late husband stirred—how long had it been since someone held her like this, since she felt heat press against her back?
"This isn't right…" she said, her voice low, but she didn't push him away.
"I don't care what's right," Shi Yang murmured, lips brushing near her neck. "I just know I don't want to be anywhere but here. With you."
Her heart pounded. Every instinct told her to resist, yet her body betrayed her, softening in his hold, clinging to the warmth she had denied herself. She bit her lip, eyes closing.
A long silence stretched between them. Finally, her hand reached back, pressing lightly against his arm—not to push away, but to steady herself.
Her words hung in the dark like a fragile thread, trembling, uncertain, yet binding them both.
"Just this once…"
Shi Yang pressed closer, feeling her warmth envelop him. His hand slid further, fingers tracing the curve of her hip, the soft tremor in her belly. She caught his wrist, her grip trembling, not firm enough to stop him but enough to make him pause.
"No kissing," she whispered suddenly. Her voice carried an edge, brittle but determined. "Anything else… but not that. Not on the lips. That's mine, still mine."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. It wasn't just a rule—it was her last defense, the only piece of intimacy she hadn't the strength to surrender.
Shi Yang's breath grew heavy, his lips hovering near her hair, the scent of lavender mixing with her warmth. "Alright," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "No kissing."
The mattress dipped as he shifted, his hands roaming with growing boldness, mapping the contours of her body as if they were his alone to know. She turned her face into the pillow, muffling a faint gasp as his touch deepened. Her nails curled into the sheets, torn between shame and the shuddering release of long-buried need.
When he pushed her nightclothes aside, baring her skin to the cool air, she trembled violently—but she didn't stop him. "Yang…" she breathed, her tone half a warning, half a plea.
"I'll stop if you want me to," he whispered against her ear, his hand already sliding lower.
Her silence was answer enough.
The hours stretched, filled with muffled gasps and broken whispers, the bed creaking softly beneath them. Her body responded against her will, betraying the years of loneliness that had hollowed her out. She clung to the rules she had set, turning her head away whenever he sought her lips, her breaths ragged against his shoulder instead.
Yet each time she told herself she would stop, she sank deeper.
By the time the storm outside faded into silence, the room was thick with the scent of sweat and the faint musk of desire. She lay curled against him, her back pressed to his chest, her body sore and trembling, but her lips untouched.
He buried his face in her hair, the taste of restraint bitter on his tongue, but he said nothing. For now, he was content to hold her, to feel the merging of warmth and water Dao pulsing within him like a tide.
And as she drifted into an exhausted sleep, he realized: he had broken through the walls of her loneliness—but not yet her heart.
—
Meanwhile, out in the heartless reaches of the ocean, a group of fishermen were hard at work, their voices swallowed by the crashing surf and groaning of steel winches. Amidst them, a single boy crouched over his phone and tripod, trying to kick up his stream once more.
"Testing, testing—are we back? Can you guys hear me? Press one if you can hear and see me." His voice cracked in the wind, half-drowned by the hiss of spray.
Behind him, a man in bright yellow fishing gear lumbered past—thick rubber overalls slick with seawater, boots caked in salt, and a heavy oilskin jacket cinched at the waist. A brimmed sou'wester hat shielded his head, its edges dripping steady rivulets of rain, while his gloves were rough, tar-stained leather that reeked of brine and old bait. He carried a gaff hook in one hand, swinging it with the casual weight of a man who had done this his whole life.
The camera jolted with every sway of the deck, the screen filled with endless gray skies and a restless ocean that looked eager to swallow them whole.
A bundled-up young man in a bright orange jacket leaned into the lens, grinning with forced bravado, his breath fogging in the icy wind.
"Yo! Yo! Finally got you guys back. This is Job Week #34, and instead of something chill like 'lifeguard assistant,' guess where your boy ended up? Yup. Fishing trawler in the middle of nowhere!"
He turned the camera toward the crew dragging ropes and nets. "See that guy? Yellow suit, looks like he's about to wrestle a shark—that's my boss. Calls me 'rookie' like I haven't passed six damn jobs already. Unreal."
The chat began filling again:
FrozenCod: Loud and clear, bro.
NekoBean: Omg that guy in yellow looks like a horror movie extra.
LaughingCrab: rookie about to get hazed lmao.
WinterSalt: careful, those seas eat people.
The boy chuckled, bracing against the sway of the boat. "Eat people, huh? Don't jinx me. I swear, if I fall in, y'all better clip it."
"But don't think just because I got you guys back, that I'll forgive you. We were so close to having fun on the beach, yet here we are because a few of you decided to switch your polls last minute."
He panned the camera across the trawler deck, where a handful of weathered uncles in wool caps were smoking and checking the winches. "Instead of, I dunno, lifeguard assistant in Busan, I get this—fishing out in the poles. Who did I offend, huh?"
He sighed dramatically, pointing to the horizon, the endless churn of steel-gray waves. "I could've been on the beach right now, rubbing sunscreen on… let's see… who was it? Ah right, Min Seo-ah, the goddess with the legs for days. Instead, I'm hauling nets with men who call me 'kiddo' and smell like squid."
The chat exploded with comments:
Seawolf88: Bro's coping so hard 😂
HoneyBubble: Min Seo-ah rejected you, didn't she??
PolarDad: Respect the uncles. Without them you'd starve.
LemonadeGirl: He's right tho, no bikinis in the Arctic 💀
The blogger laughed, shaking his head as he braced against the spray. "Look at this, guys—look at me sacrificing seeing an hourglass beauty just to pull this." He pointed at the winch as the steel net creaked and rose, dripping with seawater and writhing fish. "Enjoy the view—wet sardines and uncles yelling at me."
The crew shouted, pulling at the lines as the net dumped onto the deck. Silver-scaled fish flopped and scattered. The blogger crouched down with his camera, about to make a joke about "fresh sashimi," when his laughter froze.
Something else had tumbled out with the catch.
A body.
It lay tangled in the nets, long black hair plastered to pale skin. The tattered remains of a blue hanfu clung to its frame, its cloth soaked dark with seawater. For a moment, silence reigned. Even the chat slowed, messages popping up uncertainly:
PixelRift: wait is that… a mannequin??
SkepticSam: staged. 100% staged.
Kairos7: nah that looks too real bro wtf
One of the uncles swore and crossed himself. "Not good… not good…" he muttered, backing away.
The blogger zoomed in with shaky hands. "No way. No freaking way—what is this doing here?"
And then—its eyes snapped open.
Clouded white orbs locked onto the crew. A guttural growl tore from its throat as its hand twitched, gripping something buried in the net. The next moment, steel flashed—an old, rusted blade hacked free from the ropes.
The thing surged upright with an unnatural lurch. Fish scattered, flapping wildly as the crew screamed. The blogger stumbled back, his camera jerking, barely catching the scene as the drenched figure slashed outward.
Blood sprayed across the deck. An uncle's cry was cut short. The sword gleamed again, cleaving through another man's shoulder as panic broke loose.
The chat feed went insane:
HOLYSH*T: IT MOVED
OceanMist: BRO RUNNNN
CrimsonTide: This is a movie prank right??? please say it's a prank
WatcherX: a zombie… wtf is a zombie doing in the arctic???
The blogger's breath came ragged, his camera still on as he backed toward the railing, watching the drenched corpse stalk forward, blade dripping red.
"Guys," he whispered hoarsely into the mic, "this… this isn't part of the job…"