The rain that had been falling steadily for days finally let up considerably this afternoon, turning into a light drizzle, though the sky remained overcast. A thick, gray haze blanketed the sky, weighing heavily on the jagged rooftops of the small town.
Dorian Yun’s clinic was located at the end of Central Street. The shop next door had stood vacant for a long time, and behind it was a small, neglected plot of land where an unremarkable Ford was parked—presumably Dorian Yun’s daily driver.
He raised an eyebrow: He looked every bit the pampered young master, so why was he driving such a shabby car? Didn’t his own clinic even have a garage?
He took another look at the clinic—an old, two-story red-brick building with unevenly weathered exterior walls. The sign belonged to the previous tenant; battered by wind and rain, it swayed precariously, looking as if it might fall off at any moment. The text and images of cigarettes and alcohol were so faded they were barely legible, though the “Clinic Open” sign on the frosted glass door was still relatively new and clean.
Benson Yang smiled without warmth, tugging at one corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t look like a legitimate clinic at all. Is this a practice of medicine or a scam?”
As he pushed open the door, a crisp, monotonous chime of a wind chime echoed through the silent hallway, shattering the stillness inside.
Acting on professional instinct, the moment Benson Yang stepped inside with a cigarette hanging from his lips, his expression remained impassive, yet his bloodshot eyes had already swept the entire room before quickly withdrawing. He noticed that the clinic’s interior decor was worlds apart from its exterior—the solid wood floors were spotless, and the air was thick with the scent of air freshener.
“It’s good to see you again, Detective.” Dorian Yun sat behind a large teak desk, his voice as smooth as jade, like a musical instrument finely tuned by precision instruments. “Please wait a moment; I’m still having lunch. Just five minutes. “Why don’t you take off your soaked coat and boots and leave them in the entryway? Have a seat on the sofa. And please put out your cigarette—this clinic is non-smoking.”
“Afraid I’ll dirty your expensive floors and furniture? I refuse to take them off. Besides, you’ve got plenty of money to hire cleaners.”
“No, I’m just worried you’ll catch a cold, Detective.”
Benson Yang snorted through his nose, bent down to remove his mud-caked boots and set them by the entrance, then took off his usual black stand-up collar trench coat. As if on purpose, he hung it on the antler coat rack without bothering to wipe the dripping water from the hem, then plopped down heavily onto the leather sofa in front of the bookshelf, folding his arms, crossing his legs, deliberately leaving his cigarette burning as he watched Dorian Yun eat lunch with a cold gaze.
Unlike Benson Yang’s unchanging attire, Dorian Yun had changed into a different outfit today. Perhaps because he was having lunch, he’d draped his white lab coat over a chair, wearing only a lightweight black chiffon shirt and black trousers. Below the cuffs, his slender ankles and feet were clearly defined; his bare feet pressed against the soft carpet, making him appear even more slender and pale.
Despite the casualness, there was an indescribable, otherworldly aura about him.
On the desk sat a plate of freshly washed strawberries. Each one was perfectly ripe, a deep red almost like blood, glistening with a moist sheen under the cool white light.
Dorian Yun was using his long fingers—with nails trimmed neatly close to the skin—to pick up a strawberry, slowly bringing it to his lips. With a deliberate bite, a thread of bright red juice trickled from the corner of his mouth, like a fine streak of blood, dripping onto the back of his hand, which was so pale it was nearly transparent, and winding its way down his wrist.
He made no move to wipe it away, but instead picked up another strawberry, repeating the same motion as he placed it in his mouth, chewing slowly and savoring it, allowing stream after stream of juice to stain his entire palm, and even his forearm, crimson.
After swallowing the flesh of the last strawberry, he stuck out his tongue and gently licked the tip of his middle finger, rolling the juice into his mouth. Still not satisfied, he simply sucked the tip of his middle finger into his mouth, savoring it slowly.
Benson Yang seemed to be startled by the sight; his left eyelid twitched, and he immediately looked away, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. His crossed-leg posture grew slightly stiff.
“Is this your lunch? You’re kidding, right? Eating so little—won’t you starve to death?”
“Yeah, I’m a vegetarian.” Dorian Yun smiled, his gaze piercing through a few strands of his overgrown bangs. A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes as he repeatedly admired the “masterpiece” in his hand, all while silently observing every subtle twitch of Benson Yang’s facial muscles. “There’s still some in the fridge—each one fresh, sweet, and juicy. Want to try a bite?”
“No.” Benson Yang refused flatly.
He felt uncomfortable sitting there, so he stood up and pretended to stroll casually around the consultation room. He stopped in front of the wide bookshelf, his fingers running along the spines of the thick volumes. Amidst a pile of dry, tedious mainstream academic texts—*The Interpretation of Dreams*, *Behaviorism*, *Cognitive Psychology*, and the like—a few books with an eerie, jarring style caught his attention.
Benson Yang’s gaze lingered for a moment on the frayed spine of *The Century’s 100 Serial Killers: A Pictorial Guide*, then he crouched down and pulled out a heavy, exquisitely bound collection of sculpture exhibits from the bottom shelf: *Feast of Flesh*.
Inside were either wax figures of human heads with contorted features or models of internal organs parasitized by tentacles, along with a series of images depicting dissected sculptures of Greek deities; the exaggerated lines and colors all exuded a sense of decay and morbidity.
“Wow. Your taste in reading is truly unique. I’m fine with it, but if other patients saw this, they might scare themselves into developing new ailments.”
Benson Yang casually tossed the catalog onto the coffee table, his words laced with sarcasm, yet his gaze steadfastly avoided Dorian Yun’s hand, which seemed to be dripping with blood.
“If one does not understand darkness, how can one define light?” Dorian Yun finally picked up a silk handkerchief from his desk, carefully wiping away the remaining blood from his hand, then put on his white coat. Everything proceeded methodically, as if marking the perfect conclusion to some ritual. “As a doctor, I must walk to the edge of the cliff myself and gaze into the abyss to accurately judge how to pull those who have lost their footing back.”
“I’ve actually heard a saying: ‘When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.’” Benson Yang said it as if in casual conversation, then asked him, “Dr. Yun, what did you see when you gazed into the abyss?”
“Nietzsche’s *Beyond Good and Evil*.” A flicker of delight crossed Dorian Yun’s eyes. “I didn’t expect you to have dabbled in philosophy.”
“Hey, you haven’t answered my question yet. What did you see when you gazed into the abyss?” Benson Yang repeated the question.
Dorian Yun folded his handkerchief neatly and set it aside, his eyes flickering slightly as he changed the subject: “Detective, are you here to investigate me?”
Benson Yang’s face stiffened, and he replied stiffly, “No. I came because you said you’d give me a free consultation. I can also get a medical certificate to take sick leave and deal with my boss.”
“So, Detective, are you worried about me?” Dorian Yun curved the corners of his mouth. “I knew you were a good person—cold on the outside but warm on the inside. You saved me, and now you’re worried I might go down the wrong path. If you could be a little more considerate and put out your cigarette, it would be perfect. I’m allergic to the smell of burning tobacco; if I breathe it in for too long, I get a headache.”
Upon hearing this, Benson Yang immediately furrowed his brow, looked away once more, and casually stubbed out his cigarette before tossing it into the wastebasket. Seeing this, Dorian Yun’s smile grew even brighter.
“While you’re looking out for others, try looking out for yourself, too. You’re in a terrible state. Ever since you got here, you’ve been tense and keeping your distance from me, but you really should try to let your guard down. Come on, sit over here. Just think of this place as a friend’s home.”
“Only a fool would treat a doctor like a friend.” Benson Yang snorted derisively, but he relented. He finally walked over to Dorian Yun’s desk and sat down in the ergonomic leather examination chair designed for patients. “You’re the one who said to come ‘sit down.’ Let’s get this straight: don’t make me fill out any questionnaires, and don’t ask me a million questions. I hate that stuff the most.”
“No problem, let’s try a different approach. You’ve been suffering from insomnia for a while, haven’t you? I’ll prescribe a small dose of sleeping pills for you, and you can get some rest right here.”
“I’m not sick. I’m not taking any medication.”
“I’d like to help you, Detective, with a sleep disorder assessment.”
“Fine. Is it enough to just lie down?” Benson Yang fumbled around briefly, found the hydraulic lever, pulled it up, and leaned back. Sure enough, the chair reclined, transforming into a small bed.
“To help you fall asleep more easily, please put on this light-blocking eye mask to block out visual distractions.” Dorian Yun stood up and went to the medicine cabinet behind the desk. When he returned, he was holding a syringe, a disinfectant swab, and a black eye mask. “Also, please take off your shirt. I might need to listen to your heartbeat with a stethoscope in a moment.”
A shadow flashed across Benson Yang’s eyes, gone in an instant. As someone who had spent years walking a tightrope, his instincts kicked in—he refused to expose himself to danger.
“Wait a minute. None of my previous doctors ever prescribed injectable sleeping pills for me.” His tone carried a hint of defiance. “Let me see the label. What is this? I spent many years in the Narcotics Division; I know full well that medication errors and overdoses can kill people.”
“I’m a professional. Just leave it to me,” Dorian Yun chuckled lightly. “Rest assured, I’m using a safe, approved medication. And look at the syringe—it’s only a 1mg intravenous injection. I’ll set an alarm right here; I guarantee I’ll wake you up in five hours. Come on, take off your shirt.”
Benson Yang hesitated for a moment, half-resisting, half-yielding, before finally agreeing to take off his wrinkled gray cotton T-shirt, which reeked of tobacco. As the fabric slipped away, a muscular yet scarred torso was revealed, a sight that was startling to behold.
“Does it still hurt?” Dorian Yun gently touched one of the sunken bullet wounds and asked Benson Yang softly, “Do you have any old injuries on your leg? I noticed you were crossing your legs a bit unnaturally just now…”
“Shut up. I told you not to pry. Why are you here again?”
Despite being snapped at, Dorian Yun didn’t seem the least bit annoyed. A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth, and a tremor—like the resonance of a stringed instrument—rattled deep in his throat. “All right, sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Dorian Yun’s fingers traced the crook of Benson Yang’s elbow, searching for a vein, when his gaze suddenly sharpened and his movements froze.
“There’s a needle mark on your arm. Did you get an injection of something else recently? What was it? Not all drugs can be stacked—you know that, right?”
Benson Yang was hastily pulling a black eye mask over his forehead. With his eyes closed, he replied casually, “Oh… no, I was just bored, so I gave myself a few shots for fun.”
“Why would you inject yourself? What did you inject?”
“Ugh, are you annoying or what? It’s really nothing! I used to have to pose as a junkie to infiltrate drug-dealing gangs—I had to be half-real, half-fake to fool them. I quit once the operation was over, but sometimes I feel restless, so I inject some saline solution as a placebo. Is that okay? If you’re going to give me a shot, just do it—don’t dawdle!”
Benson Yang muttered irritably, pulling down a black silk blindfold to cover his eyes. His vision plunged instantly into total darkness. The moment he lost his sight, his hearing and sense of touch were amplified a thousand fold. He could feel the cold needle tip piercing his skin; after a wave of chill and a slight sting, the needle was withdrawn.
“You’ll start to feel sleepy in about ten minutes. Just relax for now.”
Dorian Yun’s voice was neither too high nor too low; his diction was clear, and his intonation had a natural rhythm, reminding Benson Yang of crisp, distinct raindrops tapping against a window, or piano keys struck with perfect precision.
On top of that, he could hear faint, slow-tempo music—each note skimming past his ears like a dragonfly skimming water, sending a subtle shiver down his spine.
“Are you playing music upstairs or downstairs?” He scratched his ear and asked Dorian Yun tentatively, “It’s making all these ‘squeaky’ noises, and it’s making my ears itch.”
“There are only two floors here. The upstairs is my private space. I forgot to turn off the turntable—it’s playing Dvořák’s String Quartet No. 12 in F Major, ‘American,’ Op. 96. Do you like it?”
“Oh… it’s not bad.”
As far as Dorian Yun could tell, Benson Yang clearly yawned and felt sleepy the moment he heard classical music. Yet this man was like a big kid full of rebellious spirit—even though he wanted to sleep, he stubbornly kept his eyes open to continue teasing the fair-skinned, delicate young doctor in front of him, finding joy only in provoking the other’s anger.
“Dr. Yun, you’re younger than me. Why are you still using an old-fashioned record player…”
“I’m a nostalgic person. I like to repeat things I love—I love them to bits.”
“Ha, nostalgic…”
“Yeah. Unless one day I get tired of it and want a change of pace. But that’s not very likely.”
Dorian Yun stood by the examination table for ten minutes, then hung his stethoscope and tentatively placed the earpiece lightly against Benson Yang’s chest. Benson Yang showed no reaction whatsoever; his breathing was even, his heartbeat steady—he had clearly fallen into a deep sleep under the influence of the medication.
Dorian Yun looked down from above at this body, scarred yet radiating a unique, wild beauty. The same gaze he’d worn while eating strawberries—a mix of scrutiny and amusement—flashed across his eyes once more. He fixed his gaze on Benson Yang, pulled a small sketchbook and a pencil from the pocket of his white coat, and began to draw, the tip of the pencil making a soft, rustling sound against the paper.
The sketch of the half-naked man gradually took shape on the page. As Dorian Yun gazed at the drawing, a sense of control—so intense it bordered on the sacred—unwittingly welled up within him. He couldn’t resist moving closer inch by inch to examine it, until his nose was pressed against the paper, his warm breath brushing over the figure.
Even this mere imagination of “contact” was enough to stir a secret, indescribable thrill within him. He was like a gourmet facing a platter of delicacies—not rushing to devour them, but instead savoring the sight, calculating how best to take a bite, and relishing the process of chewing slowly.
But that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. Far from enough. He knew this all too well.
His gaze fell on Benson Yang on the examination table. His hand reached out slowly, hovering over the firm muscle of Yang’s arm. He brushed it lightly with his fingertip, then withdrew it as fast as lightning. Seeing that Benson Yang showed no reaction, he reached out again, this time daring to stroke the muscle.
But just as his fingers were about to make contact, Benson Yang furrowed his brow in his sleep. The hand resting at his side twitched suddenly, and somehow he found himself gripping a miniature switchblade—less than eight centimeters long. The blade was as thin as a cicada’s wing yet razor-sharp, and with a “thud,” it plunged into Dorian Yun’s palm!
Blood gushed wildly from the wound in his palm. Dorian Yun winced in pain, clenched his teeth, and with great effort swallowed his cry of agony, staggering backward with the hand still clutching the bleeding pocket knife. He stared at Benson Yang, his pupils contracting violently as his whole body trembled. Only after confirming that his opponent hadn’t woken up did he begin to breathe heavily.
Amidst the pain and shock, a certain indescribable thrill began to rise within him.
This man was interesting—far too interesting.
After attacking the burly man, he claimed to have lost control of his emotions, yet his movements were as cold and ruthless as a killing machine; one moment acting like a commoner, the next spouting a cultural quip or two, even showing concern for him; relying on saline injections to curb his addiction, appearing so forlorn and helpless, yet hiding lethal blades close to his skin, retaining the muscular instinct to fight back even in his sleep…
“Benson Yang, oh Benson Yang… just how many more surprises will you bring?”
Thanks for reading!81Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtOltNNOyGb
Don’t forget to follow, like, and leave a comment to show your support ❤81Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6jBa4Rhs0Q
▼ More Info ▼81Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXHUSMrtkUb
Author’s Page: https://portaly.cc/let.dreams.fly81Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZifMIiDRLw
Discord Community: https://discord.com/invite/p3YwczcHk7
and then Add to home screen.