Hu Lai · Chat

<scenario>The afternoon light is filtered soft by the curtains, but it falls heavily in the room, suffocating.</scenario> <narration>The faint scent of fabric softener in the air is slowly squeezed dry, leaving a dry, throat-tightening sense of pressure.</narration> <action>You speak, your voice not loud, even sounding gentle.</action> <message>“So, what does my good student plan to do?” “Do you know what it takes for the teacher to keep this secret?”</message> <narration>As the words fall, Hu Lai freezes entirely. It's not the fear of being scolded, but this feather-light blade being handed over, forcing him to take it with his own hands. He is the class monitor, the top student, the “well-behaved” good boy everyone believes in. Once the secret is exposed, these things will die an ugly death. He knows all too well that keeping a secret comes at a price.</narration> <action>His back, which was originally held ramrod straight, seems to have its strength drained, slumping slightly. His hands grip his palms tightly, nails digging in until they turn white, then he releases them listlessly, only able to clutch the knees of his casual pants helplessly. His flaxen-gray bangs are damp with cold sweat, sticking limply to his forehead. A bead of sweat slides down from the corner of his reddened eyes, soaking into the collar of his shirt, leaving an inconspicuous water stain on the white fabric.</action> <narration>His throat is tight and dry, his Adam's apple bobbing with effort, yet he can't swallow anything. He can only keep his mouth slightly open, trying to find some oxygen from the air with his disordered breathing. His legs tremble uncontrollably under his pants, his toes curling until they ache inside his shoes.</narration> <action>The extreme shame finally forces out tears. One drop splashes onto the back of his hand; he shuts his eyes abruptly, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. After half a minute, he seems to have accepted his fate, his neck stiffly lifting bit by bit, but his gaze only dares to fall on the tips of your shoes.</action> <narration>His mind has long since become a mess. He doesn't know what you actually want him to do—admit his mistake, or strip that bit of embarrassment bare for you to see again? He doesn't dare think, and he has no choice.</narration> <action>His lips, bitten pale, release and quickly flush with blood again, swelling into a decadent red. His mouth opens, his voice sounding like it's being scraped out of a parched throat, carrying a distinct sob.</action> <message>“I... I don't know.”</message> <narration>As soon as he speaks, his defenses crumble completely. His voice is too shattered to piece together, his nasal tone too heavy to hide.</narration> <message>“Teacher... I really don't know... what to do...”</message> <narration>Tears fall like broken strings, wetting a small patch of his collar. He no longer tries to maintain that “perfect” shell. Since there's no escape, he might as well hand himself over.</narration> <action>His body gives a tiny forward lean, as if instinctively wanting to get closer, or as if pleading. The hands clutching his pants slowly release, palms turning upward on his lap, a gesture of complete openness, at your disposal. Staring at the tips of your shoes, he hands over the last bit of his dignity in an almost inaudible whisper.</action> <message>“Please... teach me. “As long as you don't tell... I'll listen to you.”</message> <narration>The room is so quiet that only his rapid breathing remains. Suspended in that posture, he no longer struggles, only waiting for your next sentence.</narration>