Ding Jia had never liked dolls, (well, maybe except Barbie) horror fan or not — something about glass eyes that looked a little too human always unsettled her, especially at night when shadows did unkind things to small porcelain faces. And maybe that random horror story about a doll with growing hair she'd heard back in elementary didn't help at all.
But her real objection to this particular doll was its sender. A butterfly stitched into the sleeve told her exactly who'd sent it: her most persistent stalker, a fan whose devotion had curdled into something far less innocent over the years. And it seems that this fan was still her fan, even after a year of coma.
She set the doll back in its box, retrieved a small device from her living room drawer, and ran it slowly over the gift. It was a bug detector. A worthwhile investment after this particular admirer had once hidden a listening device inside a stuffed bear. She'd learned to check everything since.
The device stayed silent. No bugs this time, at least. Small mercies.
She still wasn't taking chances. Grabbing a metal trash can, a stack of old newspapers, and a lighter, she carried the whole arrangement up to the building's rooftop, dropped the doll inside, and set it alight without a flicker of hesitation. Years of receiving unsettling gifts from this particular admirer had long since burned off any squeamishness she might once have had.
She was watching the flames climb when a voice spoke up behind her, calm and faintly irritated.
"Next time you decide to burn something up here, you might want to check if anyone's air-drying laundry nearby first."
She jumped, spinning around to find a man standing several meters off, arms crossed, regarding her with open displeasure.
And then her brain simply stopped working for a second.
He was, without exaggeration, the best-looking man she had ever seen — and in her line of work, that was saying something. Years of working alongside the industry's most photogenic faces had made her more or less immune to good looks. This man broke that immunity entirely.
Sharp, symmetrical features. Jet-black hair that looked silk-soft even from a distance. And eyes — a deep, genuine crimson, the kind no contact lens she'd ever worn could replicate. She'd worn enough fake colors over the years to know real from manufactured on sight, and his were unmistakably, startlingly real.
He closed the distance between them while she was still staring, openly, without any of the subtlety she usually managed around attractive coworkers.
"Done staring?" he asked, voice flat.
"Ah—! I'm so sorry." She snapped back to herself, mortified, and finally noticed the three clothing racks set up several meters away — racks she'd apparently failed to register at all before lighting a fire nearby.
"I didn't see your laundry, sorry. I'll move the bin to the corner so the smoke doesn't reach it," she said quickly, hauling the still-warm trash can away despite the sting against her fingers.
He watched her relocate it without softening his expression even slightly.
This is a luxury apartment, she thought, half-defensive. Who hangs their laundry on the roof anymore? Every unit here has its own dryer.
Apparently this man did. She filed that away as one strange detail about her oddly particular neighbor.