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墨書 Inktalez
The navigation system on the phone emitted a prompt, coldly announcing, "Your destination is 500 meters ahead, on the right."
Lin Zhao Cheng furrowed his brow slightly, following the directions with his gaze, and soon spotted a house constructed from Iron Sheets. The place looked nothing like a proper store; instead, it resembled an abandoned factory, or more directly—a massive junkyard.
The building bore no obvious sign, its corrugated iron exterior was mottled and rusted, appearing particularly dilapidated under the dim glow of the streetlights, as if it might collapse at any moment. The entrance was cluttered with various debris—some old appliances, disassembled furniture, and even a few dusty old Office Chairs leaning haphazardly against the iron wall, remnants left behind from some bygone era. Dim light seeped from within the Iron Shed, carrying an indescribable sense of desolation that made one question whether this place was still in operation.
A wave of displeasure washed over Lin Zhao Cheng; indeed, "cheapness has its reasons." He should have anticipated that a Massage Chair at such a price could not possibly be found in a shiny Second-Hand Electronics Store. This place reeked of "problems."
But having driven all the way here, he couldn't just turn back now. He sighed to himself, thinking, "At worst, I won't buy anything; it won't hurt to take a look."
With this thought in mind, he slowly drove his car to the entrance, easing off the gas pedal and gently turning the steering wheel to align the front of the car with the chaotic space ahead. The tires crunched over the gravel surface, producing a faint sound as he scanned his surroundings and confirmed that there were indeed no other people around. His unease intensified.
He parked on the side of the open area and turned off the engine but did not get out immediately. Instead, he sat quietly in the car, staring at the dilapidated iron building before him. A gentle breeze swept by outside, stirring up dust and bringing with it a faint scent of rust.
Taking a deep breath, he gripped the steering wheel and thought to himself, "Since I'm here, I might as well take a look."
Then he pushed open the car door and stepped out.
Lin Zhao Cheng walked step by step on the dry, loose sand and dust; soon his shoes were covered with a layer of grayish-yellow fine dirt. His once shiny black shoes now appeared as if draped in an old cloth. Frowning in annoyance, he shook his feet in an attempt to dislodge the stubborn dust. However, this action proved futile and only stirred up more fine sand from the ground—like long-settled dust disturbed by someone’s presence—clinging to his shoes and pant legs. The particles were small and possessed a dry yet eerie penetrative quality; no matter how much he tried to shake them off, they stubbornly clung to his clothing like an invisible reminder that this place was not meant for him.
He sighed softly and resignedly continued forward. The sound of his shoes scraping against the ground was faint yet dull; gravel seeped into his shoe seams, making each step feel somewhat rigid and uncomfortable. When he reached the entrance of the Iron Shed, he had expected someone to greet him since he had arranged a time with the Seller. However, it was eerily quiet here—no welcoming voices, no footsteps—indeed not even a hint of human presence.
Only a Chilly Wind swept through from the alleyway, swirling paper scraps and dust across the ground at the entrance. The filthy old door curtain swayed slightly as if someone had just passed through but had vanished without a trace.
He peered inside and discovered that the lights were indeed on, though they cast a dim glow reminiscent of **the dullness of egg yolks**, as if struggling to emit a faint light from old tungsten bulbs, illuminating the walls stained with rust and grime. This light **not only failed to warm the environment but instead deepened the shadows and eeriness of the space, like some ancient relic that should have been left untouched, yet stubbornly clung to its last vestiges of existence.**
The interior was not small, but it was cluttered with **a hodgepodge of items**: an old television, a broken washing machine, a toppled wooden bookshelf, and various mechanical parts scattered across the floor, resembling a forgotten warehouse, or perhaps more like a once-operational shop that had long since fallen into disrepair, quietly awaiting an unknown moment to be reopened.
Lin Zhao Cheng stood at the entrance, his brow slightly furrowed, a vague sense of unease creeping into his mind. He hesitated for a moment but then steeled himself and stepped inside. The soles of his boots crunched on the ground mixed with dust and metal shavings, producing a faint **rustling sound** that seemed jarring and clear in the eerie silence. With each step he took, the silence pressed down more heavily around him, as if invisible eyes were watching his arrival from within the air.
He cleared his throat, attempting to break the unsettling quiet, and called out, “**Is anyone here?**”
His voice echoed out but received no response; only his own voice bounced back in the empty Iron Shed, transforming into a series of short, low echoes: “**Is—anyone—here—here—here…**”
The echo lingered unnaturally long, as if the space within this building was far deeper and emptier than he had imagined. His brow furrowed even deeper as he scanned his surroundings but still saw no sign of anyone.
In addition to the echo, **a gust of wind seeped in from a dark corner**, stirring the piled cardboard boxes and plastic bags with a soft rustling sound, like something lurking within was whispering secrets among the clutter. The roof of the Iron Sheet House seemed unable to withstand the ravages of time either, occasionally emitting a creaking metallic sound that resembled a faint but persistent groan.
Lin Zhao Cheng halted in his tracks; his intuition told him that something was off about this place.
He had initially thought he was merely there to check out a Second-Hand Massage Chair, but instead… he felt an uncanny sensation as if he had intruded into a place he should not have entered.
The air was thick with a faint scent of machine oil mixed with dust, accompanied by an indescribable mustiness. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself; however, that sense of unease only intensified, as if this room was not merely a place for second-hand goods but rather **a trap waiting for 'customers' to arrive…**
Lin Zhao Cheng inhaled deeply again, **suppressing his inner anxiety**, and began to move slowly toward **Deeper**.
As he stepped into this shadowy area, the surrounding clutter seemed to form an invisible barrier that **enveloped him**. These abandoned items lay like remnants cast aside by history, quietly stacked together as if they had long since merged into one entity. The **Old Television** appeared like hollow eyes; the **Abandoned Refrigerator Door** stood ajar like a silent ghost with its mouth agape; and **A Row Of Rusty Office Chairs** leaned against the wall at odd angles, resembling forgotten sentinels coldly watching over this territory against uninvited guests.
It didn’t feel like a Second-Hand Electronics Store; instead, it resembled an Old Goods Cemetery.
He couldn’t help but think of the Terracotta Army, buried for millennia, standing in orderly rows, silent and still, as if guarding some unknown secret. And he—he felt like an Uninvited Tomb Raider, groping through this quiet and twisted historical relic, searching for his own "treasure."
The air was thick with an Ancient and Damp Atmosphere, faintly tinged with the metallic scent of oil and rust. Each step he took on the dust-covered floor made a soft "shushing" sound, contrasting eerily with the surrounding silence.
Then he saw it.
Not far ahead, a Massage Chair sat quietly, solitary like a forgotten antique, abandoned in the crevices of time.
It was exactly the one he had seen online—a Deep Black Massage Chair with Dark Red Trim.
There it was, standing alone without any other furnishings around it, as if space had been deliberately left clear for it to await someone's arrival. The dim light cast upon its surface revealed traces of age on the leather; those subtle creases seemed like marks of use or perhaps… remnants of something that had once lingered there.
It was intact, even more so than the clutter surrounding it, appearing almost too pristine.
Lin Zhao Cheng's breath caught slightly, and his steps instinctively slowed. This feeling was strange; he had come to buy a Massage Chair, but why did it seem as if this chair was waiting for him?
He stood there, gazing at it, his brow furrowing slightly as an indescribable sense of unease washed over him. Was this chair… really just an ordinary second-hand item?
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