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墨書 Inktalez
The navigation system on his phone emitted a prompt, coldly announcing, "The destination is 500 meters ahead, on your 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 legitimate store; instead, it resembled an abandoned factory—or more directly, a massive junkyard.
The building lacked any prominent signage, its iron exterior was mottled and rusted, appearing especially dilapidated under the dim glow of the streetlights, as if it could collapse at any moment. The entrance was cluttered with various odds and ends—some worn-out appliances, disassembled furniture, and even a few dusty old Office Chairs haphazardly leaning against the iron wall, remnants left behind from another era. Dim light seeped from within the Iron Shed, exuding an indescribable sense of desolation that made one question whether this place was still in business.
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 hardly be found in a shiny Second-Hand Electronics Store. This place clearly 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's worth checking out."
With that thought in mind, he slowly maneuvered his car to the entrance, easing off the accelerator and gently turning the steering wheel to align the front of the car with the cluttered space ahead. As the tires rolled over the gravel surface, they produced a faint crunching sound. He glanced around to confirm that there were indeed no people around, which only heightened his unease.
He parked on the side of the vacant lot and turned off the engine but didn't get out immediately. Instead, he sat quietly for a moment, staring at the rundown iron building before him. A gentle breeze stirred outside, kicking up a cloud of dust and bringing with it a faint scent of rust.
Taking a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel and thought to himself, "Since I'm here, I might as well take a look."
Then he opened 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 in a layer of yellowish fine dirt. His once shiny black shoes now looked as if they were draped in an old cloth. Frowning in annoyance, he shook his feet in an attempt to rid himself of the pesky dust; however, this only stirred up more fine sand from the ground, clinging stubbornly to his shoes and pant legs like some 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 the gaps of his shoes, making each step feel somewhat 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—no welcoming voices or footsteps could be heard; there wasn't even a hint of human presence.
Only a chilly wind swept in from the alleyway, stirring up scraps of paper and dust from the ground at the entrance. The filthy old curtain swayed slightly as if someone had just passed through but had vanished without a trace.
He peered inside and found that the lights in the room 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, creating an eerie atmosphere, like some ancient relic that should have been long forgotten yet stubbornly clung to its last vestiges of existence.**
The space inside 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 a once-operational shop now abandoned, quietly awaiting an unknown moment to be reopened.
Lin Zhao Cheng stood at the entrance, his brow slightly furrowed as a vague sense of unease crept into his mind. He hesitated for a moment but then steeled himself and stepped inside. The soles of his boots crunched on the floor mixed with dust and metal shards, producing a faint **rustling sound** that felt jarring in the oppressive silence. With each step he took, the stillness of the space grew heavier, as if invisible eyes were watching his arrival.
He cleared his throat, attempting to break the strange silence, and called out, “**Is anyone here?**”
His voice echoed back without response, reverberating in the empty Iron Shed, transforming into a series of short, low echoes: “**Is—anyone—here—here—here…**”
The echo lingered unnaturally long, suggesting that this space was far deeper and emptier than he had imagined. His brow furrowed even more as he scanned the surroundings but still saw no sign of life.
In addition to the echo, **a gust of wind seeped in from a shadowy corner**, stirring the piled cardboard boxes and plastic bags with a soft rustling sound, like something lurking within the clutter whispering to itself. **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 here to check out a Second-Hand Massage Chair, but instead… he felt an unsettling vibe as if he had intruded upon a place he should not have entered.
The air was thick with a faint smell of machine oil mixed with dust and an indescribable mustiness. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself; however, that sense of unease only intensified, as if this room was not merely selling second-hand goods but rather **a trap waiting for its "customers" to arrive…**
Lin Zhao Cheng took another deep breath, **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 discarded by history, quietly stacked together in layers as if they had long since merged into one. 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 an unwelcome intruder in their domain.
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 thousands of years, arranged neatly and silently, as if still guarding some unknown secret. And he—he felt like an Uninvited Tomb Raider, groping through this silent 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 produced a soft rustling sound, contrasting eerily with the surrounding stillness.
Then, he saw it.
Not far ahead, a Massage Chair sat quietly, solitary like a forgotten antique discarded 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 with no other furnishings around it, as if intentionally left in an empty space to await someone's arrival. The dim yellow 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 once lingered there.
It was intact, even more so than the clutter surrounding it, appearing almost too pristine.
Lin Zhao Cheng's breath hitched slightly, and his steps unconsciously 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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