After my bondage attempt went awry, I knocked on my neighbor's door.

This was the second time she had done this. The first time was two months ago. That night, after finishing a historical drama, she saw the heroine tied to a pillar by bandits, a cloth gagged in her mouth, her wrists raw from the coarse hemp rope. The image held her gaze for a long time, not out of fear, but a strange shiver that crawled up her spine. That night, she found the packing tape left over from moving and, mimicking the show, clumsily tied her hands together behind her back. It was loose, and she was free in ten minutes. But during those ten minutes, she felt a peculiar sense of security, as if protected by something, yet confined by it. That feeling had occupied her thoughts for two months. Today, her roommate was home for the weekend, leaving her alone in this rented studio. She finally found that roll of rope again. It was a beige cotton clothesline from the supermarket, three yuan per meter, and she had bought five meters. She tied it tighter this time, tighter than before. She wanted to experience the feeling of "truly being unable to move." But now, she regretted it. Somewhere along the line, the rope had formed knots on her wrists that she couldn't untie. When she tried to bite the end of the rope, her saliva dampened the cotton fibers, causing them to swell and turn the loose knots into tight ones. And her key, a small pair of scissors she kept for emergencies, had been knocked under the bed and was out of reach. Her phone was charging on the table in the living room. She had been tied up since three in the afternoon, and it had been three hours. Lin Wan was twenty-one, a third-year Chinese literature major at A University. She wasn't a fetishist, at least not by online definitions. She hadn't joined any communities, bought any specialized equipment, and didn't know what "shibari" or "hotei-jime" meant. She only felt her heart race when she saw scenes of bondage in TV shows; she only needed to pause and take a deep breath when reading passages describing restraint in novels. She thought this was her secret, something she would keep hidden in her heart forever, until she found a boyfriend and perhaps, one day, could tentatively mention it. But now, she might have to summon the courage because of this secret, to let a stranger witness her most private embarrassment. Her wrists were growing numb. Lin Wan pushed herself up from the floor, her legs trembling. She used her shoulder to push open the bedroom door, an old, flimsy wooden panel. She was still wearing the loose t-shirt and athletic shorts from the afternoon, her t-shirt collar askew because her hands were bound. She shuffled to the doorway, biting the doorknob with her teeth, and with great effort, managed to open her apartment door. The hallway was quiet. The voice-activated lights flickered on with her movement. Who lived in 302 next door? She only knew it was a guy, younger than her, possibly a freshman or sophomore. He had a clean-cut look, wore black-rimmed glasses, and had helped her pick up a dropped package downstairs once. They had exchanged no more than three sentences. Now she had to knock on his door and beg him to untie the clothesline from her wrists. Shame washed over her like a tide, more intense than the pain in her wrists. Lin Wan's face burned, her ears buzzed. She wanted to go back, to try again to free herself, but the numbness in her fingertips terrified her – what if her hands were permanently damaged? She shuffled to the door of 302, turned her back to it, and raised her bound hands behind her. *Knock, knock, knock.* Her knuckles tapped against the door, a faint sound, as her hands were losing strength. No answer. Lin Wan was suddenly overcome with panic. What if he wasn't home? What if she had to wait like this until her roommate returned tomorrow? What if her hands were ruined from lack of circulation if she remained tied like this? Fear made her knock harder. "Is anyone there…?" Her voice was a choked whisper, barely audible, "Help me…"