The sprawling megalopolis was a leviathan of incandescence and auditory chaos, vibrant and relentlessly vivacious. Even at this late hour, the urban landscape hummed with a restless, electric vitality, where neon signage flickered overhead like artificial constellations and the guttural roar of combustion engines reverberated through the pavement, blending with the staccato rhythm of hurried footsteps to compose a discordant symphony of modern existence. It was a tableau of living art, a breathtaking spectacle reserved exclusively for those possessing the affect to appreciate its grandeur. On the sinister flank of the intersection, bathed in the amber luminescence of streetlamps, a pristine crimson Mercedes-Benz—the pinnacle of current automotive engineering—reposed like a predator satiated after a hunt. It was positioned strategically behind the metropolis's most prestigious culinary establishment, its polished chassis mirroring the soft, effulgent radiance spilling from the expansive glass fenestration, inside of which patrons consumed sustenance costing more than a plebeian's annual remuneration. Conversely, the scene on the right was humbler yet infused with a poignant warmth; two paramours occupied a weathered wooden bench, utterly oblivious to the external world as they embraced, whispering intimate secrets that dissolved like ephemeral mist into the frigid nocturnal atmosphere.
"Luo Li, your behavior is truly irrational..." the girl giggled, her warm exhalation manifesting as a transient cloud in the cold air. "Heh, it is you who has induced this madness, my beloved..." the boy retorted, his voice tender as he brushed a wayward strand of hair from her visage. Their soft, affectionate murmurs slipped through the heavy curtain of vehicular cacophony, drifting just far enough to reach the auditory perception of a young man patiently waiting at the traffic signal. Further ahead, distanced from both the amorous couple and the vehicular opulence, a corroded bicycle leaned precariously against a stanchion beside a black stray canine. The animal's gaze was not captivated by the kaleidoscopic displays or the transient crowd; instead, its ocular focus was fixed intensely in a singular trajectory, its lean physique rigid with palpably anxious anticipation. Behind the street lay a row of congested, chaotic emporiums—a district where one could procure anything from counterfeit electronics to stale bread—where luminous signage vied desperately for attention and the perpetual ebb and flow of humanity saturated the narrow thoroughfares. From that very row of shops, a young man emerged.
He stood approximately one hundred and eighty centimeters in height, possessing a lean yet sinewy constitution that alluded to a latent, coiled potency. His hair was shorn to a moderate length, framing a countenance that projected a calm, unshakeable self-assurance. He was clad in a monochromatic ensemble of a black jacket and trousers—garments of humble origin, yet worn with an innate elegance that transcended their meager quality. However, any observer who scrutinized him closely would inevitably be paralyzed by the anomaly of his gaze. His left iris burned with a profound, unsettling crimson, while his right was a piercing shard of glacial azure. They resembled a Yin-Yang circle severed into two distinct, opposing chromatics—contradictory, yet completing a perfect, mystical whole; they were eyes that harbored profound secrets, eyes that seemed alien within the mundane confines of the city. Pressing a mobile device to his ear as he paused at the intersection, Xan's expression softened perceptibly. "Mother, I have procured the pasta and the meat," Xan communicated, shifting the grocery burden in his hand. "However, I lacked sufficient funds for the secondary item you requested, as the price has inflated once again."
On the opposite end of the transmission, a warm, gentle laughter crackled through the speaker—a resonance that possessed the unique efficacy to alleviate the world's heaviness. "Haha, it is acceptable, my son; do not burden yourself, for you can acquire it on a future occasion." The young man nodded slightly to himself, a faint, relieved smile gracing his lips. He proceeded slowly, maintaining the conversation until he reached the rusted bicycle and the waiting black canine. The beast immediately recognized him, rising with a tail wagging so violently that its entire frame was shuddered, its dark eyes scintillating with unadulterated ecstasy. Xan extended a hand to stroke the rough, matted fur. "Let us return to our sanctuary, Masterpiece." The dog emitted a soft, affirmative whine, seemingly acquiescing to the command. Consequently, the young man propelled his bicycle forward, the dog trotting loyally alongside him as they retreated from the blinding neon luminescence and the defening noise, navigating toward the dimmer, dilapidated outskirts of the metropolis.
Xan resided in a settlement that clung to the periphery of the city center like a forgotten memory. His domicile was a relic constructed from timber that had grayed with the relentless passage of time, supported precariously by three asymmetrical pillars. The verdant paint that once coated the walls had faded decades prior, peeling away to reveal the rotting wood beneath, while the roof sagged dangerously, appearing as though a solitary gust of wind could precipitate a total collapse. Yet, for the past eighteen years, it had inexplicably withstood the elemental storms. The young man, appearing no older than eighteen himself, parked the bicycle and pushed the front door open, the hinges groaning a familiar, rusty lament that signaled the conclusion of his day. "Mother, I have returned! Is the evening meal prepared? I am on the verge of starvation..." Unlike the ramshackle exterior, the interior was an immaculate sanctuary measuring merely ten by fifteen meters—less a house than a singular, expansive chamber—yet organized with a meticulous affection that transformed it into a home. In the upper left corner stood an antiquated cast-iron stove serving as a heater, while the right corner housed a study desk beside a chaotic pile of literature scattered on the floor; to the right of the entrance, a diminutive kitchenette was compressed against the wall, opposite a small wooden rack for their apparel.
It was simple, diminutive, and humble, but it was indisputably theirs. In the center of the room, upon a low bed, an elderly woman lay beneath a thick, patched quilt. Her hair had transitioned to a complete white, and deep fissures mapped her face like arid riverbeds; though she was Xan's mother, she appeared nearly octogenarian, easily mistaken for a fragile grandmother. Xan frowned slightly, noting that she would customarily be sitting upright to greet him by this hour. "Mother, is your health compromised? I am home..." He commenced changing his attire, suspending his jacket on the rack, and continued speaking to fill the void, assuming she was merely slumbering. "Today my supervisor indicated a forthcoming salary increment; if I persist in my diligence, I shall soon earn sufficient funds to procure a new residence... perhaps in a decade, we can inhabit a premier location in the city center, and you will no longer suffer the cold." He awaited a response—a chuckle, a cough, any auditory sign of life. The room remained suffocatingly silent. Aside from the young man's echoing voice, there was no indication of vitality, no warmth, nor the rhythmic sound of respiration. The heavy stillness suggested that the guardian spirit of this home had already departed, leaving behind only a hollow shell.