Even the lit street lamps are engulfed in darkness and it seems it's going to rain, the moist smell already lingering in the air. Zitao buries his face into the knitted scarf when a harsh, cold wind blows past him, making his way back home. The streets in his district are empty and silent, without a single hint of any living creature; and Zitao can’t help himself, but look around and enjoy the mask of harmlessly looking world. It's calming yet disturbing, he decides, and continues to walk.

Zitao watches as puffs of his hot breath mingle with the cold around him and feels the first raindrop hopelessly fall somewhere on his face. The sound of steady steps fades away and they stop completely in their tracks, leaving only his breath to be heard along with the silence of the night, accompanied by the chattering of rain against cars and windowsills. Zitao likes the smell of wet pavement scattering in the air and how the gentle beads of rain caress his skin.

Time isn’t his master, he thinks when his mind wanders, just for a second, to the fact he's still on the Earth and on the particular ordinary street near the apartment building he lives in. He stands there like a perfectly sculpted statue, with his hands tucked inside his coat pockets and his head in the direction of sombre sky, letting the water soak him to the marrow of his bones.

He is the master of his own time.

Zitao closes his eyes and toys with the keys in his pocket, noticing his coat is already drenched to the last fibre, his dark hair sticks to his head as if he just washed it and he wonders if his black eyeliner is smeared all over his face.

Yifan watches him from the window, surrounded by the same darkness, the two cups of tea sitting and waiting silently on the coffee table.

The night seems endless.