Futile Devices Scans

Zhou Ruo An was imprisoned by Lin Yi—in a place he himself had chosen and prepared.

The camp bed, the bedding Lin Yi had used, the cheap heater—nothing went to waste.

The only difference was that Zhou Ruo An had food and water, delivered three times a day, on time.

At seven in the morning, sunlight filtered in through the boarded-up window in thin, scattered strands.

The sunlight was narrow and thin, making it appear even brighter and more dazzling. Zhou Ruo An raised his hand to catch that single beam of light, and suddenly felt that it resembled his life—pitch-dark all around, with only one suspended ray of light, something he had to exhaust himself to grasp and possess.

After watching it for a while, he lost interest and switched to playing with a coin.

The metallic reflection shimmered brilliantly, dazzling enough to make one squint. This time, Zhou Ruo An found it interesting. He liked anything connected to money; holding something gleaming with wealth in his hand gave him a strong sense of accomplishment.

The warehouse compartment was small. The camp bed was placed right beside the door. The sound of unlocking came from above. Zhou Ruo An wiped the expression off his face, lowered his hand, and closed his eyes again.

The iron door was pulled open, and cold air rushed in, only to be cut off again as the door shut. Soon after, steady footsteps sounded inside the room.

A plastic basin was pulled out from under the bed, filled with cold water, then topped up with hot water. A wooden crate, hastily found in the warehouse, was dragged to the bedside, and a meal box was placed on top of it with a dull thud.

Then came the sound of a lighter flicking, followed by it being tossed onto the crate. Zhou Ruo An’s eyelashes trembled slightly—he knew Lin Yi was about to speak.

Sure enough, a low male voice dropped from above: “Stop pretending. Get up, wash, and eat.”

Zhou Ruo An waited a moment before opening his eyes. That short delay was his final act of resistance. If he delayed any longer, Lin Yi would simply pull off his blanket and slowly, thoroughly look him over from head to toe—even the ankle exposed beneath his trousers. Zhou Ruo An had already chewed over one word for that: voyeurism.

Damn it.

Opening his eyes, Zhou Ruo An propped himself up halfway. The silk shirt he wore looked good but was useless—worn as sleepwear, it resembled a rag that had endured three years of famine.

He buttoned it up, quickly put on his suit, and asked, “Did you bring my pajamas?”

“I did.” Lin Yi placed a travel bag on the bed. “Your pajamas, razor, moisturizer—they’re all in there.”

Zhou Ruo An rolled up his sleeves and washed up. His skin, damp with water, looked clear and bright. Under the strands of sunlight filtering in, it was unexpectedly pleasing to look at.

He reached out—a silent request for a towel.

Lin Yi clicked his tongue and said coldly, “Young Master Zhou looked cuter when he was hanging.”

But the towel was still handed to him. Zhou Ruo An wiped his face carelessly, tossed it aside, and said with a dark expression, “Cute? How did your middle school diploma die—suicide? If you don’t know how to use adjectives, don’t use them.”

He sat at the crate, opened the meal boxes one by one, and asked, “Which place did you get breakfast from?”

“Cantonese eatery.”

“I remember I said Cantonese Gourmet House yesterday.”

“Zhou Ruo An,” Lin Yi bent slightly, staring into his eyes as he flicked ash into the meal box lid, “I don’t know how my diploma died, but I can figure out how you’ll die.”

In their silent standoff, Zhou Ruo An looked away first. He picked up the food and began eating, asking with lowered eyes, “How many days are you planning to keep me here?”

Lin Yi dragged the heater closer and replied, “Haven’t decided.”

“I only locked you up for three days.”

“Don’t talk about fairness with someone whose middle school diploma is already dead.”

“Lin Yi, you—”

“Eat,” the man cut him off. “When you’re done, it’s my turn.”

The breakfast portion was clearly more than one person’s share.

Zhou Ruo An usually didn’t eat much, but today he finished everything, so full he had to pace back and forth in the small space.

Even though Lin Yi had been fasting, he showed no irritation. After cleaning up the meal boxes, he pulled out a tablet from his bag and started watching something.

At first, Zhou Ruo An only glanced casually while walking. But after a few minutes, he sensed something off and looked properly.

What he saw, however, was far from proper.

A large bed filled most of the screen. There were two people on it—both men.

Muscle, force, restraint—the face pressed into the pillow, the bed sinking repeatedly. Every frame made Zhou Ruo An’s scalp tingle.

He immediately looked away and stepped back. “Lin Yi, are you really this bored now? Impressive—so devoted, huh? It’s only 8:42 in the morning and you’re already thinking about your descendants?”

Lin Yi smiled and turned up the volume. “Can’t wait.”

“Can’t you watch that at home?”

“At home, it’s not as interesting.” Lin Yi’s gaze moved from Zhou Ruo An’s narrow waist upward, passing over his chest and lips, and finally resting on the small mole hidden in his left brow. “Here, it’s a bit more stimulating.”

A pale hand suddenly grabbed the edge of the tablet and pulled hard.

It didn’t move. Lin Yi held the other side and said calmly, “Break it, and you’ll be spending the New Year here. I’ll make sure the Zhou family’s young master disappears in a perfectly reasonable and legal way. No one will come looking for you.”

Zhou Ruo An finally understood what it felt like to be completely dominated. He glared at the relaxed man in front of him, thought it over, and, being at a disadvantage, had no choice but to concede. “I don’t want to watch this. If you want to, turn the volume down.”

“Fine.” Lin Yi lowered the volume slightly and set the tablet on the crate.

He wasn’t watching attentively—just glancing at it occasionally. His expression and posture barely changed, as if he were watching an art film rather than anything intense.

Zhou Ruo An, however, found the sounds unbearable.

He wrapped himself in the blanket, closed his eyes, and tried to force himself to sleep—but the more he tried, the harder it became. The unsettling sounds drilled into his ears, until he even began noticing flaws.

“Can you switch it?” Zhou Ruo An suddenly threw off the blanket. “Asian faces speaking English—there are so many damn grammar mistakes.”

“Is that so?” Lin Yi’s English ability was basically nonexistent—limited to “Oh yeah” and “Come on.” He turned the tablet toward him. “You pick.”

Zhou Ruo An frowned at the indecent thumbnails, then curled back into the blanket. His voice came muffled through the fabric, vicious: “Lin Yi, one day this is going to be the death of you.”

Lin Yi casually opened another video and said lightly amid the escalating noise, “I hope so.”

After enduring a mix of languages, the sunlight filtering through the wooden boards gradually dimmed. Finally, when it was time for Lin Yi to leave for his bar shift, the tablet fell silent and was shoved under Zhou Ruo An’s pillow.

The compartment door was locked again with chains. Zhou Ruo An sat on the bed for a long time. Then he took off his outer clothes, turned off the heater, picked up a container of cold water, and poured it directly over himself.

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