"Tell me more about this letter C," Dr. Watt prompted, leaning forward slightly, the rims of his glasses dipping until they nearly grazed his top lip.
His gaze fixated on a beautiful face in front of him. The fact that the beautiful face belonged to a man seemed inconvenient.
Lufe's face was gently heart-shaped, with a softly tapered chin that lends him an almost porcelain-doll elegance. His skin had the warmth of golden honey spun through with soft caramel undertones—neither pale nor richly bronze, but aglow from within, as if lit by a subtle internal light.
His eyes were perhaps his most arresting feature: large, almond-shaped, and framed by naturally long, dark lashes that sweep upward like the brushstroke of an artist's pen. The lids had a faint epicanthic fold, giving them depth and mystery, while his irises gleam a deep umber flecked with molten gold. Above them, his brows arched in a smooth, unbroken curve—neatly groomed but never harsh—adding to the impression of an almost androgynous refinement.
High cheekbones casted gentle shadows beneath them, emphasizing the sculptural quality of his visage. His nose was straight and narrow, neither too sharp nor too broad, bridging forehead and mouth with classical restraint. Below, his lips are full yet not heavy—softly bow-shaped, with a natural flush of rose.
His hair was glossy, raven-black strands swept forward into a wispy fringe that brushes his brow, while the sides and back are tapered close, allowing the top to fall in light, feathery layers.
His breath-taking appearance earned him the nickname, Prince of Beauty. He possessed a beauty that ensnared the gaze of all who beheld him—so much so that even those assured of their own orientations found themselves doubting when those large, luminous eyes regarded them.
However, those beautiful features concealed a dark secret. Lufe never dreamed.
This had been troubling him since he found out about it, about nine years ago when he was only ten.
At first, he paid no attention thinking he was still too young to dream. Years went by and he got tired hearing his friends sharing fantastic and mesmerizing stories from their dream worlds.
Now at 18, he had never had a glimpse of a dream. To make matters worse, sometimes he would see something that looked like letter C in darkness.
"Is that a dream?" Lufe wondered.
He began visiting Dr. Watt, a seasoned therapist who never understood the mystery and always attempt to make it a scientific problem.
As a therapist, he had had crazy cases. In most cases, the cause were mental problems but Lufe's case seemed too peculiar and far from being a mental issue. "supernatural" was only word that constantly came to Dr. Watt's mind but he never accepted it.
"It's always the same." He murmured. It took him some time to respond attempting to find most effective words to describe the phenomenon.
"When I drift off, I see only that shape—white against a black void. No faces. No places. Just…" He paused, searching for words. "…just the arc and the curve of a C."
Dr. Watt scribbled into his notebook, the pen scratching like distant rain.
"No colors? No motion?" Dr. Watt asked.
Lufe nodded once, eyes flickering to the therapist's lined expression. "Nothing. Just that stark sliver of light. It lingers for a moment—then fades, and I wake." He presses his lips together, eyes downcast.
Dr. Watt leaned back, gray hair brushing the top of the office's dusty shelves. "You're certain it's a C? Not a crescent? An O?"
Lufe lifted his gaze, amber-flecked eyes shining in the lamp's glow. "I'm not sure." His cheeks flushed. "It resembles a C. I know that much."
Dr. Watt's pen hovered, then flipped a page. "Could be neural misfiring. Or perhaps—your mind blocks dreams altogether?" He taped the notebook. "An adaptive measure. Have you experienced—" He hesitated, voice softening. "Have you experienced other anomalies? Lights. Sounds. Feelings?"
As a response, Lufe merely shook his head.
Dr. Watt sighed before he tapped his pen against his journal, creating a gentle drumbeat.
"We'll explore neurological factors," he said. "And I want you to keep a dream journal—if it yields nothing but blank pages, record that. Date and time each entry. Also, note any sensations that precede or follow waking—sounds, temperatures, even scents. The more data we have, the closer we get to understanding this phenomenon."
Lufe inclined his head. "I will."
He rose, smoothing the front of his charcoal-gray tunic. He offered a small but grateful nod.
"Thank you, Dr. Watt." With that, he turned and slipped out of the office, leaving the therapist with his pen poised above a nearly full page of notes.
---
Lufe crossed the cracked pavement toward home, his pace rather fast. He brought out his phone, the case—plastic pink with a delicate cherry blossom pattern—felt smooth in his hand. Something many might call a "girlish" choice.
He tapped his messaging app and opened his chat with Hou-min—his best friend, a Korean model. Two little blue dots glowed next to his friend's name: unread messages waiting.
"Done?"
"Not yet?"
Lufe paused, heart fluttering. He straightened his shoulders and typed, "Going home now. How many episodes have you seen?"
For a moment, his phone remained silent in his palm, as if time itself had paused. Then—pings, one after the other:
"Two episodes..."
"And I'm out."
While Lufe went to see Dr. Watt, Hou-min had rushed home to watch the latest wuxia drama, the Terrifying Dragon Emperor—an adaptation of a best-selling novel of the same name.
"What's wrong? Wasn't the novel amazing?" Lufe asked.
Hou-min replied with a couple of messages.
"It's nothing like the actual novel."
"The plot has been changed so much."
A hint of disappointment appeared on his face. He remembered the first time he'd curled up in his room late at night with a well-loved copy of the original Terrifying Dragon Emperor.
The words had carried him into spring-soaked bamboo forests, where Gu Caoxian's silver hair glinted under moonlight and his sword hummed with ancestral power. Lufe longed for that same magic to leap from the screen.
He pressed send: "My expectations were quite high. That's bad."
Almost instantly, Hou-min's reply appeared: "Indeed."
"The young master of the Heavenly Beast clan, Gu Caoxian, slaughtered only two winged-serpents at the entrance of the great serpent cave instead of getting in and slaughter a thousand winged-serpents."
"Besides, Liu Xialin is not as handsome as the novel stated."
He scrolled up as another line from Hou-min appeared:
"I'm even more handsome."
A familiar smirk tugged at Lufe's lips. He remembered Hou-min practicing model poses in front of a mirror, neck elongated, fingers splayed, as if every angle could capture light and shadow just right. If anyone could have pulled off a brooding martial hero, it would have been Hou-min himself.
Messages from Hou-min continued to pop up:
"They changed Gu Caoxian's backstory—no childhood in the Moonlit Pavilion, no tragic betrayal by his mentor."
"Liu Xialin only smiles twice in the entire season. It's like they forgot how to write dialogue."
Lufe had gotten enough of it. Hearing the criticism hurt him.
"I shall check it out myself. I hope to catch up soon" He wrote before returning the phone in his pocket.
Lufe's pace slowed down, the only reason he hurried home was to watch the drama but Hou-min—with the criticism had successfully killed the vibe.