What exactly is not good enough?

The small music studio, converted from a guest room, was dark. On the LCD screen hanging on the innermost wall, the ending of "Sacrifice to Dawn" was paused. The room owner had been away for too long, so the system activated protection mode and turned off the screen, plunging the room into silent darkness.

The silhouette of the open door slowly tore a hole in this corner of the night, only to heal it quickly.

A wisp of breath rose slowly and was then released deeply, and only then did the sound of scattered footsteps echo in the space. The keyboard was touched and stroked, accompanied by a dull tap, and the large screen lit up again, with a faint melody coming from the table.

Bathed in light that danced with the melody, Jonathan picked up his headphones, pressed the heavy earcups tightly against his ears, pushed back into his swivel chair, and sat down. The headphone cord swept crumpled pieces of paper onto the floor, where they rolled away in all directions.

"Not good enough, not good enough..." Jonathan muttered absentmindedly, his hands trembling slightly as he unconsciously started biting his nails.

The wet hairspray clung to the back of her neck, water droplets gathering at the ends of her hair to form a glistening trail that trickled into the loose collar of her bathrobe.

Ignoring the itching from the water stains and the body heat evaporating from the dampness, countless thoughts raced through her mind: "The rhythm is off," "The use of strings here is nonsensical," "You've made such a mess of the song and you still dare to dream of a career change," "The show's organizers must be blind to have invited you to compose the chart-topping song"...

It's too noisy, shut up.

Jonathan pulled himself closer to the workbench, pressed the replay button heavily, rested his forehead on one hand, and wrote furiously on the blank sheet of music with the other.

Since returning from Diamond Ash, he had listened to "The Night of Dawn" word for word dozens of times. He was already numb to it and even felt a strange sense of unfamiliarity.

The initial intention was self-appreciation, but the more one listened, the more the motivation shifted, gradually developing into self-judgment.

His low-grade fever persisted, and after taking a cold shower, he found it even harder to think.

Fingers also became unruly, and dense groups of notes appeared on the paper, difficult to decipher. The strokes of the writing carved triangular holes in the paper, and finally, the entire sheet, unrecognizable, was ruthlessly crumpled into a ball and discarded.

In the past, when inspiration would wander off, I could simply go out and have some fun, then take a cold shower when I got home, and that would force a restart.

That's no longer possible.

The voice in my head kept growing louder, saying something I couldn't make out; all I could feel was a persistent, menacing force.

An invisible sense of fear spread along his spine. Jonah weakly took off his headphones, leaned back in his chair, and lay down, trying to shake off the negative emotions and thoughts.

The chair back had a limited opening angle, leaving him stuck in an awkward position, his smooth forehead suddenly furrowing in pain.

"What is it that's not good enough?! F*ck—"

The headphones broke free from their cord and slammed hard against the screen that was playing the loop.

-

Jonathan wandered restlessly through the cluttered apartment like a midnight ghost, a glass candy jar tucked in his pocket, taking a bite of licorice candy every few steps.

The sugar jar was soon empty. He turned off all the lights and went to the living room, stopping where a television would be placed in a typical household.

To celebrate Christmas, the Goddess Lighthouse in the heart of Manel City keeps its torch burning all night, and the radiant light symbolizing inspiration shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows into the Nest Winza penthouse, like a pair of gentle hands caressing the face of the boy in the giant portrait.

The oil painting brushstrokes outline a naked body hidden in the clouds. The face, untouched by makeup, still retains a childlike innocence, and the flowing hair barely veils the innocent and indifferent eyes.

Jonah stared at the coin in the painting engraved with the face of a two-faced god, grabbed the last bit of licorice candy in his palm, and stuffed it into his mouth.

A moment later, bare feet with long Achilles tendons arrived in front of the sofa with gold foil embossing at the four corners. The bathrobe cascaded down her calves onto the carpet, and she stepped barefoot out of the small circle formed by the velvet fabric and directly onto the sofa.

In the dark corner created by the handrail blocking out the light, there were deep, magnetic male whispers, not from the same person, but all more or less similar: some were gentle flirting, some were flattering and seductive, and some were calmly admonishing...

The body, shrouded in a cold white glow in the shadows, was curled up, its face buried in silver hair. The lines on its arms stretched and relaxed with the rhythm of the movements, which went from slow to fast. The throat, locked in a circle of silver light, did not utter a joyful sigh, but rather a self-destructive and hurried groan.

After an unknown amount of time of torment and struggle, the longevity lock on her sphenoid bone, damp with sweat, finally rose and fell, turning red. After a very soft "ah," she gagged, causing her to cough. In the brief intervals between her violent breaths, her originally clear and flawless voice was cut into a hoarse and broken tone.

-

Tap, tap, tap.

A tall, dark figure staggered ahead, while a seven-year-old child followed cautiously behind.

The shadow moved quickly, and so did the child.

The shadows move slowly, and so do the children.

The shadow stopped, and the child stopped too.

"Stop fucking following me! Tsk, can't you find your way home either?" The dark figure strode up to the child, shoving his forehead. "Are you done yet?...Are you running a fever?"

The child tilted his head back, coughed a few times as if it were part of the occasion, blinked his eyes, and tugged at the shadowy figure's sleeve, saying, "Brother, I'm cold."

The shadowy figure whispered "Damn," then unzipped the down jacket, put his hands in his pockets, and tucked the disheveled kid under his armpits. He then shoved the bottle into his hand and used his other hand to wrap the other piece of clothing around him.

"Take it carefully, don't spill it on my clothes."

The shadowy figure had a high body temperature. The child, huddled inside a down jacket, was drowsy. From the angle of the face down, all that could be seen was a pair of brand-new sneakers wandering aimlessly.

Awakened by a mechanical "ding-dong, welcome," the snow-covered ground in the child's eyes has turned into reflective tiles, and the brand-new sneakers are covered in mud.

"Um... how much does the fever reducer cost?"

"Thirty-eight yuan and eighty cents."

Take a scoop, switch sides, take a scoop, take a scoop.

Splash!

"...I didn't bring any cash with me when I went out. I have three yuan. Can I have one?"

"If I can't come, who am I supposed to sell the rest to?"

"What can you get with three yuan? This child has a cough."

"...licorice tablets."

"Then let's go with this one."

Slide, slide, slide.

"Hey kid, where did you pick up such a dirty kid during the New Year?"

"Dirty? I didn't notice because it was dark outside."

The child felt a chill all over his body, and was then put on the ground. Without the down jacket, the stark white light made it hard for him to open his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, there was a face in front of him.

A face filled with disdain, disgust, and contempt.

The person in front of him squatted down to be at eye level with the child, examined him for a moment, and then sneered, "Sorry, you really are dirty."

-

Jonathan got up from the sofa and walked unsteadily toward the light, oblivious to the flashing of his phone on the coffee table.

He kept bumping into furniture or ornaments while walking, seemingly oblivious to the pain or the need to dodge, and continued to face them head-on. Only after several such encounters and his face had to turn slightly could he continue forward.

Stumbling to the floor-to-ceiling window, he stared unblinkingly into the void. He raised his hand and turned the side door that blended seamlessly with the window, opening the door to the outdoor swimming pool. The cold winter wind tousled his dry silver hair and rushed into the room, howling and howling.

"Brother, I'm cold."

Despite the cold, I didn't feel it at all, and I walked barefoot step by step toward the pool.

The elevator car opened and closed, and a burly man with dark brown skin appeared in the entrance hall. His phone was still lit up with a call screen. He looked a little anxious. He went straight into the apartment building, only to find that he was calling another phone.

"Janus, are you alright?"

The burly man hung up the phone, spun around in place searching for the silver-haired singer, and was startled by what he saw outside the window—

Jonathan was circling the edge of the pool completely naked!

The weather in Manel in December is not enough to freeze the pool water into thick ice, but it is still bone-chillingly cold. If a person falls into it while not fully conscious, regardless of whether they are awake or can swim, they are at great risk of drowning.

Upon seeing this, the burly man immediately fell silent, as if to avoid startling the man. He bent down and picked up Jonathan's bathrobe from the carpet under the sofa, approaching him as quietly as possible.

Jonathan suddenly stopped facing the pool and raised his arms slightly upwards.

“J? It’s me, Vasin…” Vasin turned to the side, shifting his weight to his back foot, and reached out his free hand toward Jonathan, trying to call out softly.

Jonathan tilted his head.

"I'll give you clothes, wear them first..." Vasin continued to probe, getting closer.

However, just within reach, Jonathan took a step, missed, and fell into the water.

Almost simultaneously, Vasin threw off his bathrobe and plunged into the pool.

Jonathan was awakened by the icy water. The water was only 1.5 meters deep, but he still struggled in response, unable to stand steadily. He tried to call for help, but choked and could only gurgle and sob.

“Grab me!” Vasin shouted.

Vasin grabbed the flooded ladder with one hand for leverage and wrapped his other arm around Jonathan's chest to lift him up. He was hit hard on the body and face several times. Fortunately, he was strong and agile, otherwise the two of them would probably have sunk to the bottom together.

Jonathan finally realized that the person beside him was his assistant and bodyguard. He calmed down and stopped struggling. After catching his breath, he stepped on Wassing's sturdy D-shaped legs and was lifted ashore by the handrail.

By the time Vasin's upper body emerged from the poolside, Jonathan had already donned a bathrobe, his lips were purple from the cold, and he had a smile on his face. Vasin was about to climb up, bracing himself on his strong arms, when Jonathan lightly stepped on his shoulder to prevent him from moving.

"Who gave you the right to come into my house like that?" Jonathan said, looking down at her.

"Fan, you need to contact me. Don't sleepwalk." Vasin remained motionless, still supporting himself on the ground.

Wasin is from Siam and speaks the language in broken Chinese, only able to string together words in single phrases. Jonathan's thoughts are quite jumpy; he can actually make sense of the general meaning of Wasin's sentences, but whether he can "understand" them depends entirely on his mood.

Just like now, he knew perfectly well that Vasin meant, "Tang Fan told me to come over. You've been very tired lately, and we need to keep in touch. I'm afraid you're not feeling well and are sleepwalking again." But he was in a bad mood and didn't want to understand.

Yes, yes, yes, Wasin is a good guy, Jonathan is a bad guy.

Jonathan withdrew his foot, brushed his soaked hair behind his head, and turned to go back inside.

"Tch, that's utter nonsense."