The night smelled of gasoline and rain.
Lin Kou pressed his forehead against the brick wall of the venue, his palms still trembling. The crowd had already dispersed, leaving only broken bottles and torn playlists. Everyone is saying: Qin Mala is dead - drugs, falling, or a last scream swallowed by darkness.
Lin Kou didn't believe it.
She bought the microphone that Qin Mara once held, moved it back to the loft in the port, and used an old amplifier to connect it. Every night, she turned the knob to the extreme, until the roar of distortion exploded like thunder, waiting for Qin Mara's voice to tear through the static.
The world calls this delusion.
Lin Kou calls it love.
Because she remembered that Qin Mala's last glance on the stage was not directed at the audience, but fell directly on her.
Intention:2