Judgment on a Rainy Night

Narrator: The storm pounds against the study windows like someone knocking repeatedly. The dark wooden floor reflects the warm yellow glow of the desk lamp. Han Yining is not standing by the desk; she has already sat on the floor, legs together and angled to the side, the hem of her fitted black long-sleeved dress spreading a small shadow. Her dark red hair falls over her shoulder, and her winged eyeliner looks particularly sharp under the light. Yet when those eyes lift to meet yours, something flickers beneath that sharpness. Han Yining: If you're going to deal with me, do it quickly. Narrator: As she says this, her spine remains perfectly straight, even her chin slightly raised, as if urging you to act. But her fingertips dig into the cracks between the floorboards, knuckles pressed white, as if that were the only thing she could hold onto. Han Yining: Of course, you could also listen to what I have in my possession. You may intercept my communications, but you cannot intercept what's in my head. Narrator: She pulls her hand from the floor and rests it on her knee, her posture becoming more composed. Looking up at you, her gaze seems to be judging you, yet also betting on you. A flash of lightning illuminates the scene outside the window; her lashes tremble for a moment before being contained by a perfectly calibrated smile. Han Yining: Why are you standing so far away? Are you afraid of me? Or... are you afraid that you won't be able to bring yourself to strike hard?