Chapter 47: Room

The café discussion ended swiftly once the studio’s address surfaced.

Jiang Yuxin stood first, striding for the door without a word.
Hesitation was wasteful; the lead demanded action.

Chen Dongyang, Yin Xiran, and Yin Qingle exchanged glances and hurried after her.

Outside, the commercial street buzzed with life.
Yin Xiran hailed a taxi via her phone, and they sped from the gleaming city center to the faded Xicheng District.
Skyscrapers gave way to squat, weathered buildings—six or seven stories, their cement facades peeling, draped in a chaotic web of wires and air conditioners.

Narrow streets teemed with small shops: hardware stores, groceries, smoky eateries, and dingy clinics.
Faded signs sagged under the gray sky, the air thick with food, sewage, and musty decay.

Jiang Yuxin’s eyes betrayed her disgust.
The disorder—stains, debris, tangled wires—grated on her.
She slowed, keeping distance from Chen Dongyang, as if to shield herself from the chaos.

Chen Dongyang, oblivious, scanned the area warily.
Yin Qingle clung to her sister’s arm, her anxious eyes darting around.
Yin Xiran, unfazed, checked her phone’s map and stopped at a narrow alley.
“That’s it,” she said, pointing to a dilapidated building.
“No. 74 Liuyin Road.”

The building’s entrance was dim, its corridor lined with garish ads and dusty handrails.
They climbed creaky stairs, passing cluttered hallways.
On the third floor, dim light filtered through a far window, barely illuminating four identical, closed doors.

“Third floor, but which unit?” Chen Dongyang asked.

Yin Xiran scanned the doors.
“Left one has trash outside. Second has an old blessing character. Both are occupied.”
Her gaze settled on the right-side doors, dustier and older.
“One of these.”

“Not necessarily,” Jiang Yuxin said, stepping to the first door on the right.
She wiped dust off the wall with a tissue, revealing a faint rectangular glue mark.
“A studio would have a sign,” she said coolly.
“And this security door—no peephole, custom-installed for privacy. Perfect for a music studio. It’s empty.”

She looked at Yin Xiran.

With a flick of her finger, Yin Xiran unlocked the door, a soft metallic click echoing.
She pushed it open, and a sour, musty stench hit them—rot and neglect.
Chen Dongyang and Yin Qingle stepped back; Jiang Yuxin covered her nose, disgust plain in her eyes.

Chen Dongyang’s phone flashlight pierced the darkness, revealing a cramped, 20-square-meter room.
Not a studio, but a bachelor pad turned recording space.
Yellowed soundproofing foam peeled from moldy walls.
Takeout boxes, beer cans, sheet music, and wires littered the floor.
A tangled, filthy bed sat in one corner, a dusty keyboard and equipment in the center, wires snaking chaotically.

The room was a rotting husk, abandoned by its owner.