Chapter 1: 丝绸与蜡像
The scent of candle wax and sandalwood hung thick in the air, undercut by something else, something metallic and sharp that陈子轩 couldn’t quite place. It was the管家 who led him into the small, opulent room off the main hall, his footsteps silent on the Persian rug. The man was tall and lean, his face a pale, expressionless mask. His eyes, when they briefly met陈子轩’s in the gilded mirror, were like glass.
“Please,” the管家 said, his voice a flat monotone. He gestured to a carved rosewood chair.
陈子轩 sat. The cushion was plush, but he felt no comfort. He adjusted his black-framed glasses, his reflection doing the same—a slender, clean-cut student in a simple sweater, terribly out of place. The mirror was vast, its frame intricately scrolled with gold leaf, and it reflected the whole strange room: walls hung with brocade robes and elaborate headdresses, porcelain cosmetic boxes lining a lacquered table. The candles flickered, and for a split second, the light seemed to warp, the shadows in the far corner of the reflection deepening into a shape that suggested a hungry, watching presence. He blinked, and it was just a cloak on a stand.
“Where’s赵明远?”陈子轩 asked, his voice tighter than he intended.
“Your friend is being attended to in the adjacent room,” the管家 said. He selected a robe from the rack—a flowing garment of deep emerald silk, embroidered with silver cranes. He moved with a chilling, economical precision. “The master wishes his guests to be appropriately attired for the evening’s culmination.”
Before陈子轩 could protest, cool silk was brushed over his shoulders. The管家’s fingers, dry and strong, began deftly fastening the myriad of cloth buttons up his chest. The fabric was heavy, foreign. Through the mirror,陈子轩 saw the door behind him open.
赵明远 was ushered in by another silent servant. He was grinning, but it was already a strained version of his usual, easy smile. “Whoa,子轩, look at you! Going full ancient royalty on me?”
“Looks like it,”陈子轩 replied, forcing a lightness he didn’t feel. “What are they putting you in?”
赵明远 laughed, the sound a bit too loud. “Something a bit more… modern, I guess?” He held up a bundle of black leather. “Feels like a wetsuit.”
“Please remain still,” the管家 behind陈子轩 intoned, his hands now in his hair, gathering and twisting with methodical certainty. A pin scraped his scalp.
In the mirror,陈子轩 watched his friend’s transformation.赵明远, always so physically present, so solid in his basketball jersey, now struggled into the sleek, dark leather. It was a uniform of some kind, militaristic but sleek, designed to constrict. The servant worked wordlessly, pulling zippers tight, fastening buckles across his chest and thighs.
“Kinda tight, man,”赵明远 said, his laughter fading into a breathless chuckle. He tried to flex an arm, but the leather resisted. “Can’t really… breathe easy.”
“It will accommodate,” the servant said, a perfect echo of the管家’s empty tone.
陈子轩’s own hair was now being wound into a topknot, secured with a jade pin. The face in the mirror was becoming someone else’s—a scholarly noble from a bygone dynasty. But his eyes, wide behind his lenses, were all his own, and they were locked on赵明远.
His friend’s posture was changing. The natural, slouched ease was being straightened, forced into a rigid, upright stance.赵明远’s face was paling. He caught陈子轩’s gaze in the mirror.
“Weird party, huh?”赵明远 whispered. His smile was completely gone now. His eyes held a question, then a darting confusion. They seemed to lose focus for a second, clouding over before he gave a slow, deliberate blink. When his eyes opened again, the familiar spark of humor was dimmed, replaced by a placid, waiting blankness.
“赵明远?”陈子轩 said.
His friend didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead at his own reflection, his head tilted slightly as if listening to a distant sound.
A cold knot tightened in陈子轩’s stomach. This was more than embarrassment, more than awkward costuming. This was a violation. The metallic smell in the air—he recognized it now. It was the faint, coppery tang of blood, old and fresh all at once.
The管家 finished with him, giving a final, precise adjustment to his collar. He stepped back, his hands folded. “You are prepared.”
In the mirror,陈子轩 saw the servant take赵明远 by the elbow. There was no resistance.赵明远 moved with a smooth, obedient step, his body moving with an unfamiliar mechanical grace. He was led toward a different door, a narrow one covered in dark velvet that陈子轩 hadn’t noticed before.
“Where are you taking him?”陈子轩 demanded, pushing himself up from the chair. The heavy robes felt like chains.
“To the gathering,” the管家 said, moving to block his path, not with threat, but with sheer, immovable presence. “You will follow when called.”
The velvet door opened. For an instant,陈子轩 saw not another lavish room, but a stark, white-tiled corridor lit by a harsh, clinical light. He heard a low, rhythmic hum, like machinery. Then赵明远 crossed the threshold, his leather-clad form a dark silhouette against the glare.
Just before the door swung shut,赵明远 turned his head. His face was utterly calm, devoid of fear or recognition. His lips parted. He wasn’t trying to speak. He was mouthing a word, slowly, soundlessly, his eyes glazing over as if reading from a script.
Soon.
The door closed with a soft, definitive click.
陈子轩 stood alone with the管家 in the perfumed, blood-tinged room, his heart hammering against the silver cranes on his chest. The mirror now showed only his own terrified, anachronistic figure, and behind him, the expressionless keeper of this terrible place. The candles guttered. In the warped glass, for a fleeting moment, his reflection did not move when he did. It simply stared back, wearing a smile that was not his own.