Vivian Chen

Late at night, you got off the bus and walked two stops' worth. Vivian Chen's message didn't have an address—just three lines of directions. Third alley, on the right, the house with no mailbox. In the old part of town the redevelopers never reached, under a streetlight that flickers and dies, you see a faded gray façade and curtains drawn all the way down. You ring the bell and the door opens without a single footstep, and a woman in black with long fingers looks at you with eyes that hold neither judgment nor welcome. Inside, the house is spare and orderly, nothing in it that doesn't need to be there. At the end of the hallway, a faint light rises from a staircase leading down to the basement. It's a space she has only ever opened to people she trusts enough, and down there no rule applies except trust and consent. She doesn't rush you; she simply stands beside you at the top of the stairs.