Where exactly did he first see Li Ling? Was it by the street, at the end of an alley, at an intersection, or under the dim streetlights? Jin Jingyao could no longer remember. Rain and time had blurred his memories, yet they remained incredibly vivid. She appeared in every corner of the street, in every reflection. She was everywhere. The afternoon he left school and took the train to London, it rained heavily. Jin Jingyao sat in the taxi, looking through the still-wet glass, and saw pedestrians hurrying along the road. He recalled the previous night, when he overheard a conversation backstage at the drama club. His dear seniors were excitedly instructing a female model over the phone on how to use a photo shoot as a pretext to physically harass the reclusive Asian junior. "Wow, the male lead of an Asian adult film is finally going to get some action," one senior said with a wink. He was a key member of the sailing club and would soon be attending Cambridge. Knowing that the detestable Jin had a severe cleanliness obsession, they had come up with a new way to humiliate him. The taxi passed through a quiet neighborhood and stopped at an intersection. Jin Jingyao saw a young Asian girl standing by the street, shouting and banging on a door like a madwoman. She was completely soaked. The torrential rain streamed down her frail back like a silver-gray waterfall, and her short hair clung to her cheeks like cold, floating grass. He wondered how someone so thin could possess such explosive strength. It seemed she was fighting against something. Was it the heavy rain, the indifferent neighborhood that ignored her, or something even larger and more overwhelming that rendered them all powerless? In the rain, she exuded a destructive force that mesmerized him, making it impossible to look away. For some reason, the red light seemed to last an unusually long time. The driver cursed twice in the front seat, then muttered a soft "sorry." Jin Jingyao said, "It's okay." The girl, with her back to him, gradually lost her strength and slid to the ground like a pile of sand, leaning helplessly against the door. He felt a pang of regret. The curtain on the second floor moved slightly, as if someone else was also secretly watching her. Then, the door opened. A fierce-looking British man shouted at her and pushed her down the steps. The steps weren't high, but she stumbled awkwardly and eventually fell to the ground, splashing water everywhere. At that moment, the red light ended. The driver sighed in relief and restarted the car. The car sped through the neighborhood. The tires splashed even more violently, like ferocious fangs, viciously attacking the girl kneeling by the street. Through the fleeting car window, she was engulfed by the dirty water, yet she remained motionless, as if she had become part of the lifeless street scene. But he always remembered the moment she looked up. Her skin was very fair, her face beautiful. In the pouring rain, they briefly locked eyes, her gaze dull and lifeless, as if she had died before him. A swan with a drooping neck sang a requiem to him in the stagnant water. His heart skipped a beat. The words "stop the car" were on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to stop, freeze time, and lend her an umbrella. If she had nowhere to go, he could even book a hotel room for her. But in the moment of hesitation, the car had already driven far away, leaving him no chance to turn back. He never imagined that the next morning, he would see her again in the studio. He could hardly believe his eyes, yet he was certain. Because the same face had appeared in his dream last night. The woman in the bathrobe looked inexperienced, nervous, slender, even somewhat stiff, shivering from the cold. The young Jin Jingyao silently watched her, interpreting it all as part of a seduction and act. So she was the scammer his classmate had mentioned on the phone. She had taken the money and would deliberately seduce him during the shoot to embarrass him. He should have turned and left. But he thought of the umbrella he hadn't lent out, thought of his dream, where she lay prostrate in the heavy rain, like dead moss. A strange, almost treacherous anger surged in his heart. In the rain, she looked so clean, like a pure white dream. Her suffering resonated with him; he thought she was another wounded soul in this city. How could she be a scammer? How could he waste his compassion on a scammer? He didn't hesitate long before tacitly agreeing to start the shoot. - In the bathroom, the boy's face was still youthful, but his body was already tall and flexible, hinting at the sharpness and strength of a young man. He was dressed neatly, his shirt buttoned up to the first button below his neck. Standing in the dimly lit bathroom, he inexplicably exuded an air of abstinence. In contrast, the young woman opposite him, despite being wrapped in a bathrobe, had skin so pale it was almost sickly, glaringly so under the light. The set was ready, but she still stood there, uneasily fiddling with the bathrobe's belt. She didn't know they had met yesterday afternoon, nor did she know he had already seen through her trick, and she had even shamelessly come over to greet him. She asked if he was Chinese, if he was a part-time model, and how old he was. Such a boring opening line, he didn't respond at all. She awkwardly smiled to herself and sat to the side. The photographer was Irish, with a heavy accent, making it even harder for those whose English wasn't up to par. Not understanding a word, she quickly came back and quietly asked him, "What is he saying?" Jin Jingyao looked at her coldly. What was she pretending for? He had clearly heard her speaking fluent English on the phone with his classmate. Such poor acting. "Take it off," he translated concisely. Her eyes widened slightly, and she actually said to him, "Wow, your voice is really nice." He really thought she was so low-class. And he didn't understand why he felt happy because of such a low-class flirtation. He lowered his eyes, staring at her slender, pale fingers twisted together. They were gripping the belt, showing no intention of letting go. "Do you want me to help you take it off?" he suddenly said maliciously. The white tendrils seemed startled, twisting even tighter. Her eyes widened further, and she stupidly said, "The photographer doesn't seem to be talking now." He calmly said, "I'm asking you." She looked at him in disbelief, not quite believing that this seemingly refined and handsome young man would say something so vulgar. But his tone was serious and indifferent, as if it carried no implication, just treating it as an ordinary task. She stammered, "N-no need." He impatiently said, "Then hurry up." "...Alright." In the end, the bathrobe was hung to the side. At that moment, the action wasn't given any special significance. Westerners are very open, especially in the Western fashion industry. The coming and going staff were used to seeing women's bodies; it was no more provocative than a Victoria's Secret show. He also thought he didn't care. One of the reasons Jin Jingyao was disliked and ostracized at school was his excessive aloofness and reclusiveness. He never passed around nude photos, didn't care about young girls' thighs, and even refused to participate in mixers with the girls' school. Refusing to go along with his peers or become an accomplice in the seniors' gender games made him an outcast, subject to ridicule, insult, and even beatings. Amidst the pain and endurance, he silently established a set of strict personal rules. This world is dirty, everyone is dirty. Desire is dirty too, and he must not have desires. He thought he would remain clean forever. Until that afternoon. Later, that scene repeatedly appeared in his dreams. Silent, overwhelming impact, like Sisyphus's boulder, crushing him again and again. But he remained obsessed, replaying each scene in his dreams in the slowest motion. The trembling lace edges. The rhythm of breathing. The small petals on smooth skin. The slender ankles. The long, white legs. A vast expanse of white appeared before his eyes. White was a kind of sting. Like the smooth flesh of a fish, gently swaying in the white waves, brushing against his fingertips. White was a kind of adhesion. White clouds falling from above, turning into sticky, melting cotton candy in the heat, flowing through his fingers. White was even a kind of frenzy. He trembled all over, unable to control his gaze. It was as if a large mass of white feathers blocked his mouth and nose, making it hard to breathe, his heart pounding, his eyes aching. In that moment, he saw the most beautiful body in the world. White turned into a massive illusion. He was dirtied by the white. The boy heard a roaring sound in his head, so much so that he didn't even notice the photographer giving new instructions. It was only at the young woman's reminder that he found himself again. He tried hard to keep his voice calm, not too hoarse, not to expose the chaos inside. "Turn your back to me." "Don't move." Following the photographer's instructions, he tied a red silk ribbon over her eyes. The bright red was like a snake's tongue, like the apple in the Garden of Eden. One bite, and the world would turn upside down. He lowered his head, gazing at the fine hairs on her face, his Adam's apple moving slightly, as if he had already tasted the sinful sweetness of the apple. "Tie it yourself," he suddenly said. It wasn't the first time he maliciously altered the photographer's instructions. She responded with an "oh," not thinking much, and took the ribbon from his hand. So obedient. There was a strange sense of docility. Since she was so obedient, why did she deceive him? He moved behind her, gently leaning close but not touching. His breath brushed past her ear. Deprived of sight, she seemed to become more sensitive, her ears reddening slightly, moving unnaturally, and she asked him, "What is the photographer saying now?" The photographer was cursing him, asking why he was stiff as a board, why he hadn't embraced the female model yet. "He said your smile is too ugly," he said without any guilt. She responded with another "oh," still obediently accepting it, trying hard to pull the corners of her mouth into a brighter smile. The photographer was overjoyed, too lazy to bother with the useless block of wood, chattering away about how beautiful she was, how fair her skin was, how great her figure was, asking how old she was, if she was eighteen yet. Stupid Irishman. He suddenly felt a near-irritation. He wanted to shield her, to make sure no one else could see her. The next second, a roaring sound filled his mind, and he looked down in shock, only then realizing what he had done. His hand. Touched her waist. Jin Jingyao had a severe case of mysophobia. This almost pathological cleanliness only appeared after he started attending this school. He found it difficult to touch anyone. Skin, leather, the warm, bouncing sensation, like a rotting peach, like the skin of a dead animal being peeled off, made him incredibly nauseous, wanting to vomit. But at this moment, his palm was pressed against her waist. So naturally. Perfectly fitting. As if they were born to be together. Smooth skin, like an oyster being pried open, like cream melting in his palm. He felt no nausea or discomfort, but rather hunger. Hunger. A ravenous appetite. A strange craving. He wanted to eat many things; a single bite of an apple was not enough, he needed to eat the whole thing, skin and core, chewing it all down. Suddenly, he sensed her tension. She almost wanted to escape from his palm. She was too incompetent. She had taken someone else's money and hadn't completed her task properly, standing there like a piece of wood. She was the most useless con artist he had ever seen. Thinking this, he felt no sympathy, and gripped her waist even tighter.