Chapter 5 : I like her

The movie was a sizzling hit, every screening sold out.
Online reviews glowed, its rating soaring to a staggering 9.7, still climbing.
A suspense film earning such praise was rare.
Ye Qinghe returned with a bucket of popcorn and two colas.

As she neared, Qi Yuanhan caught the rich, caramel-brown sugar scent.
Ye Qinghe offered the popcorn, “Want a taste?”
Qi Yuanhan shook her head, declining.
At 7 PM, ticket checks began.

Their seats, perfectly centered, offered the best view.
Qi Yuanhan took the inner seat, Ye Qinghe placing the popcorn bucket between them.
The cinema was steeped in caramel aroma, tantalizing.
Qi Yuanhan resisted outwardly, but her mouth watered incessantly.

When the lights dimmed, she sneakily pinched a piece and popped it in.
Ye Qinghe caught the motion, her eye corner lifting slyly.
She took a piece herself, eating it slowly.
So sweet.

The movie’s weather mirrored the outside—rainy, gloomy.
Pedestrians clutched umbrellas, hurrying through streets.
The camera panned to a dark alley.
A woman’s knife flashed in the thunder.

The man ahead collapsed, not killed by one stab.
The woman, gripping the blade, stabbed over ten times.
A voice asked, “Have you ever truly wanted to kill someone?”
The woman replied, “No.”

The voice pressed, “I have. As a child, my teacher shamed me with punishment—I wanted him dead. As an adult, I wished death on those who lusted after me. Now, I want those who toy with me gone…”
The rain poured for a day.
Police tracked down the man’s wife.
They showed her a knife, asking if she recognized it.

She examined it, “It’s very like one from home.”
She fetched an identical knife from her kitchen for the police.
They informed her: her husband died in the rain.
The wife looked up, calmly, “I won’t claim his body.”

“He died heading home,” the police said, eyeing her as a suspect.
She sneered, “Ironic. He rarely came home, and when he did, he dies.”
The camera lingered on her face, unreadable—neither joy nor sorrow, only irony.
Like someone numbed by despair, unable to laugh.

Life and death meant nothing to her.
The police revealed: her husband was killed en route to his mistress, stabbed multiple times.
The mistress had vanished.
They deemed her the prime suspect, asking the wife if she knew her.

“How would I know the woman who ruined my family?” the wife said.
The police relented, shifting focus.
They issued a city-wide manhunt for the mistress.
After a week, they found her in a casino, but the twist stunned them.

Clear video proved she was in another alley when the man died.
From her vantage, she could see the other alley.
The suspect became a witness.
The police, frustrated, asked what she saw.

She said, “A garbage bag.”
They scoured mountains of trash.
She added, “A knife.”
They hunted for knives.

Finally, she said, “A woman.”
The police zeroed in on the wife, but she had an alibi—buying a birthday cake with her child.
The mistress then claimed she saw two women, killing together.
The police, skeptical, noted the wounds suggested a single killer.

They thought she was toying with them.
Her “garbage” was the man, already dead.
The case hit a dead end, that night a mystery.
Time froze for all, except the man, dead alone in the rain.

The police sent his ashes to the wife.
Handing them over, an officer warned, “My eyes are always on you.”
The wife replied, “I called you before. You hung up.”
The film’s end showed her, trembling, dialing at night.

The police dismissed it as a domestic spat, hanging up.
Back home, her husband pinned her down, beating her until her head bled.
She stared into the night…
In that alley, the mistress lit a cigarette, flicking ash, waiting for it to burn out.

She took a final, graceful puff and vanished into the rainy night.
Neither woman lied.
It wasn’t one killer—they were in collusion.
The wife stabbed the man, wiping blood and prints with a plastic bag.

The mistress torched the bag with a lighter.
They killed together, not planned, but sparked by a shared, unbearable moment.
Their lives, tightly woven, unraveled in the rain.
The movie ended, its plot electrifying, surpassing mere words.

Using the police’s lens, it revealed two women: one debauched, the other timid, with no contact, no calls, no meticulous cover-up, yet bound by a rare tacit understanding.
They used each other’s flaws to exonerate themselves, creating an escape for one another.
As the credits rolled, the audience shuffled out, buzzing about the plot.
Ye Qinghe, holding the empty popcorn bucket, asked, “Which character do you like?”

Qi Yuanhan favored the mistress.
She was cunning, outsmarting many in the film.
Her smoking was magnetic, dripping with allure.
She didn’t answer.

Ye Qinghe stepped closer, matching Qi Yuanhan’s pace, “The wife’s popular. I like her.”
Outside, rain poured, the city’s sleepless glow dimmed by thunder and pitch-black skies.
Ye Qinghe glanced out, “Let’s eat, wait for the rain to ease?”
Qi Yuanhan followed her back into the mall, to the bustling fifth-floor food court.

The rain amplified the eerie mood.
The mall was a crowded haven, busier than before.
Ye Qinghe asked what she wanted.
Qi Yuanhan had no preference.

She rarely ate here—not to flaunt, but because home chefs or high-end restaurants were her norm.
“Let’s try this,” Ye Qinghe pointed to a Korean BBQ shop.
Qi Yuanhan nodded.
The small shop, with twenty-odd tables, was nearly full.

Tables were cramped, a frying pan at the center, a hot water kettle beside it.
Qi Yuanhan eyed a sign on the next table, detailing how to eat and use side dishes.
Ye Qinghe said, “A waiter will help soon.”
Qi Yuanhan, defensive, “I usually stick to Western or French restaurants, or clubs with friends.”

In her circle, street food was rare—they craved rare, pricey bites to flaunt status.
Ye Qinghe replied, “I can tell, you’re a noble lady.”
Her tone wasn’t mocking, sparing Qi Yuanhan’s pride.
The waiter brought beef slices, pouring sauce into the pan, frying it deftly.

Despite the chaos, service was polished, rivaling upscale venues.
Qi Yuanhan said, “Aren’t you the same?”
Ye Qinghe passed her a dipping sauce dish, “Not quite. I’m faking it. I look the part, but people say I’m aping elegance, a lowlife climbing ranks.”
No one genuinely admired a mistress’s poise—praise came with scornful glances.

Qi Yuanhan dipped a beef slice in sauce.
The flavor was phenomenal.
She blurted, offending Western food fans, “Those steaks are wasted.”
“Indeed,” Ye Qinghe agreed.

More dishes arrived.
Ye Qinghe, declining the waiter’s help, cooked and chatted, “Some invite you to steak dinners, not for steak lovers, but for novices. They watch your knife and fork, your napkin. If you fumble, they ‘help’—but they’re mocking you.”
Qi Yuanhan listened, respectful, her eyes meeting Ye Qinghe’s.

The overhead light cast an orange glow on Ye Qinghe’s eyes.
Her smile hid indifference.
Qi Yuanhan, unaccustomed to humiliation, lost her appetite.
This was her first time at such a place.

She didn’t know how to eat Korean BBQ—Ye Qinghe handled it all.
Was Ye Qinghe testing her?
Ye Qinghe said, “I’m different. I brought you here because you look cute when you eat.”
Cute?

Qi Yuanhan, stunned, had never been called that.
She ate self-consciously, feeling Ye Qinghe’s gaze.
After dinner, they stepped out.
The rain had stopped.

Qi Yuanhan headed to a bus stop, crowded with people.
Boarding was a frantic scramble, bodies pressed tight.
The villa district wasn’t far, but the wait stretched half an hour.
Rain returned, fiercer, wind and water merciless.

The bus stop’s sign was useless, offering no shelter.
Qi Yuanhan, drenched, was trapped, unable to move.
She shielded her forehead, watching a car—hazard lights flashing—weave through the crowd and stop before her.
Horns blared from impatient drivers behind.

Ye Qinghe lowered the window, tilting her head, “Your clothes are soaked.”
Qi Yuanhan’s light summer dress, rain-soaked, clung to her, her underwear’s color faintly visible.
Ye Qinghe’s blunt remark, in front of strangers, mortified her.
Her composure crumbled.

Unable to linger, she ducked into the car as Ye Qinghe opened the door.
Ye Qinghe slid into the driver’s seat, updating the navigation to an unfamiliar residential area.
She started the car, “My place is close. Let’s shelter there first.”
Qi Yuanhan glanced at the front seat, thinking: Blatant lie.

[TL Note: “抢” (qiǎng – rob) was adapted to “frantic scramble” to capture the chaotic bus-boarding scene. Italics emphasize sensory details (e.g., caramel-brown sugar, flashing), emotional shifts (e.g., stunned, crumbled), and key actions (e.g., flashed, torched). Bold marks the title for clarity, per user preference for deliberate emphasis.]