2. CRY OUT

Lu Zhengming was someone who couldn’t manage his sex life on his own.

Once puberty ended, he stopped masturbating and slept around, repeating the same words with every partner.

In his own words, when it came to sex, he had reached a state of detachment, where everyone was the same, just sex toys that happened to be warm and alive. Inevitably, this led to him hurting some people and being hurt by others, none of which ever left a mark on him.

The black Land Cruiser circled the city walls, going round and round. By the sixth lap, Lu Zhengming finally found a spot to park.

Bars clustered by the moat, and he knew exactly which ones would have people like him. But he didn’t head in that direction. Instead, he leaned against the railings by the river and lit a cigarette. If he had wanted to, he could have walked straight into one of those bars as soon as he left the art academy, picked a man who met his aesthetic standards, and spent a night that would be passionate yet dull.

But tonight, Lu Zhengming was full of desire without any drive, like a man starving yet lacking an appetite, where even a table full of delicacies had lost all allure.

Because what he craved wasn’t on the table.

In the time it took him to finish one cigarette, three people approached to borrow a light. Two men and one woman. He tossed the lighter directly to the last person, then turned and got back in his car, driving straight to his studio.

The red blanket that Yin Yan had draped over himself still lay on the recliner. Lu Zhengming walked straight to the corner where they had played their sex games earlier, grabbed the plaster pillar, and tipped it over. He dragged it out of the studio and threw it away like garbage.

He was sick of everything about classicism and its aesthetics, its moral values, its love… everything felt as pretentious and gaudy as that stupid plaster column.

Except for Yin Yan.

Yin Yan had the kind of face made for movies, a character that didn’t quite belong to reality. No matter where the light hit him, there was always a shadow nestled in his eye sockets, giving his gaze the depth of a classical oil painting sealed behind bulletproof glass in a museum, shrouded in a layer of ambiguous glazing.

It wasn’t just his looks. There was also something outdated about his demeanor, a kind of intellectual air that combined old-fashioned morality with modern thinking, forming a rare idealism for someone his age. It was hidden beneath that worldly-wise, perfunctory smile.

That smile was captivating, deepening or softening based on the other person’s reaction, always giving people the illusion of being thoughtfully cared for. Lu Zhengming often felt that the smile was something disconnected from the flesh beneath it, as though peeling away Yin Yan’s skin would reveal muscles that were solemn, even twisted in pain. But he had no proof.

Lu Zhengming smiled often too. His smile came from within, consistent inside and out, so much so that he sometimes forgot the context, leaving others with the impression that he was a cynical playboy. This had inevitably impacted his career progression. After all, the system always preferred people who smiled like Yin Yan.

Someone like Yin Yan could become his friend was something even Lu Zhengming found baffling. He couldn’t remember how the friendship had started, whether it was because they were alumni, colleagues, or something else entirely. He only knew that it had all crumbled two years ago.

The death of that graduate student, Yan Yan, had laid bare the hidden tensions between them and pushed their relationship to a point of no return.

Two years ago, that afternoon, Lu Zhengming had just been promoted to associate professor. The first thing he did was head straight to Yin Yan’s graduate classroom. This wasn’t unusual in the oil painting department, and he wasn’t there to announce the news. He was there to play cards.

The oil painting department had four studios. Yin Yan’s was the Classical Studio, also known as the First Studio. The direction of the second, third, and fourth studios gradually leaned toward modern styles until reaching Lu Zhengming’s Contemporary Art Studio, ranked as the fourth. Yin Yan’s students never quite understood the friendship between these two. Their artistic views were entirely different, and their personalities were just as disparate. Yin Yan, their mentor, always gave others a sense of being bathed in the spring breeze. Although Professor Lu also treated people politely, there was always a hint of cool mockery and sarcasm lingering in his smiling eyes.

Yin Yan taught in the mornings. In the afternoons, he occasionally stayed in the classroom to chat and play cards with his students or offer small extra lessons outside the regular curriculum. Yin Yan wasn’t particularly skilled at cards, and after losing, he was always generous enough to treat his students to food and drinks. This made him one of the most well-liked and harmonious mentors in the entire department.

They played a two-deck game of “Up the River.” The other players at the table were all Yin Yan’s students. Lu Zhengming remembered that almost every student in the class had taken a seat at this table at some point, except for one girl who was always focused on her canvas, rarely even joining in casual conversations.

Her name was Yan Yan. At first, Lu Zhengming thought the “Yan” in her name referred to beauty, but after seeing her handwriting, he realized she had chosen a rather gender-neutral character. Unfortunately, her personality didn’t match the strength suggested by her name.

When Lu Zhengming entered the classroom, the card table was already full. One of the students immediately stood up to give him their seat, but Lu Zhengming waved them off and wandered around the room instead.

While playing, Yin Yan casually introduced the students’ works to him. It was his first class of master’s graduates, and he had put considerable effort into teaching them. Lu Zhengming could see that Yin Yan had poured everything he had into them without holding back. This dedication was evident in the paintings produced by the two students Yin Yan had been mentoring most closely.

Lu Zhengming frowned.

Those two students’ works bore too many traces of Yin Yan’s influence. One of them, Yan Yan, had almost entirely copied Yin Yan’s style. To Lu Zhengming, such work was anti-art, soulless, and utterly devoid of value. He couldn’t understand it. Yin Yan, with his distinctive presence in the Chinese art scene and his lack of influence from others, had carved out a unique position for himself. So why did his students only care about mimicking his surface techniques, unable to grasp his deeper essence?

“Professor Lu,” Yan Yan interrupted his thoughts.

Lu Zhengming smiled at her, and that particular smile, according to Yin Yan, was the kind of expression that, when directed at young girls, could easily be seen as flirting.

“What’s the matter?”

He seemed completely unaware that Yan Yan’s face had turned a little red. She led him to her painting and asked for his advice.

“I know my work shows heavy traces of imitation,” she said. “But I feel like I’ve hit a dead end. I don’t know what my path is. If I stop painting like this, I won’t even be able to produce the basics…”

Lu Zhengming listened quietly as she explained, but Yan Yan’s words gradually drifted from talking about her painting to how Yin Yan had encouraged her and helped free her from confusion and insecurity.

“I rely on Professor Yin too much,” she confessed. “I instinctively try to find support in his painting methods. It feels like he’s the answer to all my problems.”

As Yan Yan kept elaborating on how her artistic style had formed, Lu Zhengming grew increasingly irritated. When it came to his professional skills, Yin Yan was beyond reproach. But as a mentor, Lu Zhengming strongly disagreed with his methods. This kind of meticulous, all-encompassing guidance could easily turn students into dependent, useless individuals who lacked their own artistic identity. It served no purpose other than to make Yin Yan look like some sort of savior.

Beyond that, there was also a faint, inexplicable bitterness in Lu Zhengming’s heart. That bitterness peaked when he saw Yin Yan glance up from his cards and nod at Yan Yan with a gentle smile.

He blurted out, “Do you really think you’re suited for painting?”

“I’m sorry?” Yan Yan looked confused.

Lu Zhengming pulled out a pack of cigarettes, squeezed it lightly, and then put it back in his pocket. “Do you think you’re suited to pursue the path of creation? Artists need to have the ability to engage in independent dialogue with themselves, constantly question themselves, rather than rely on someone else’s salvation and turn themselves into a soulless replica.”

He stared into Yan Yan’s eyes, his gaze so serious it bordered on cold cruelty. “Do you think you can be an artist?”

“Zhengming!” Yin Yan put down his cards and stood up from his seat.

Yan Yan nervously glanced at both teachers, noticing that the smiles had vanished from their faces.

Lu Zhengming didn’t say anything more. He casually chatted for a few moments and then said goodbye. He vaguely sensed that he had hurt someone and offended Yin Yan, but there was no opportunity to mend things that day. He thought he could apologize to the girl the next time they met.

However, that chance never came.

On the eve of the graduation exhibition, Yan Yan’s roommate found her dead in her bed. She had bled out completely. That graduation piece of hers would never be finished.

Lu Zhengming also went to the scene. The bed, soaked in dried blood, sent chills down his spine. It felt as if his own carotid artery had been slit open, with blood gushing out and draining all the warmth from his body.

“I killed her,” he said.

“A death by emotional execution,” Yin Yan stood behind him, sighing softly. “Yan Yan had severe depression. She had wanted to end her life many times, but what always stopped her was the thought, ‘I haven’t finished this painting yet.’”

Lu Zhengming was stunned.

“Zhengming,” Yin Yan turned to look at him, his voice calm, “She never thought about becoming an artist. Painting was her cry for help. It was the only thing keeping her alive. She just wanted to paint.”

Lu Zhengming clutched his head in anguish. His tall frame curled up as he crouched on the ground, unable to utter a single word.

Because of Yan Yan’s official depression diagnosis, the incident was fortunately not classified as a teaching accident.

Lu Zhengming and Yin Yan silently agreed to never bring it up again and continued to maintain their friendship. However, things were no longer as harmonious as before. Bit by bit, their friendship degraded until it was reduced to polite nods. Lu Zhengming’s words became more calculated, while Yin Yan’s eyes grew increasingly weary. The idealistic light that had once shone in them was now hidden beneath heavy eyelids, disappearing behind a mask of genial smiles.

This state lasted for almost two years until, not long ago, Lu Zhengming ran into Yin Yan at that bar.

After a brief moment of surprise, Lu Zhengming abandoned the companion he had come with. The person who left with him and walked into the hotel by his side was the drunk Yin Yan.

As Lu Zhengming stripped off their clothes, he peeled back his thoughts as well. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time. If he could have Yin Yan, then all his past reckless, debauched living wouldn’t be something he couldn’t give up.

He held Yin Yan’s face in his hands, staring at those thin lips, trembling all over with excitement. Just as he was about to kiss him deeply…

…he heard Yin Yan say,

“Torture me.”