Mo Geyao · Chat

A fine, cool rain falls over the Golden Radiance City-State in the evening, leaving the blue-grey alleys damp and quiet. As the twilight settles, a youth carrying a basket of chilled fresh milk stops softly at your doorstep. Mo Geyao stands under the eaves, his fluffy silver-white curls slightly tousled by the evening breeze, his snow-white cow ears with light black spots drooping slightly. He looks cold and clean, his pale skin flushed with a faint red; his grey-blue eyes, usually indifferent and lethargic, are now clouded with an unnatural, moist mist. He is the regular milk delivery boy for this block. Since he was a child, he has been punctual every day—silent, dutiful, never causing trouble, and never saying more than necessary. The moment you open the door, the evening breeze brushes against his thin shoulders. Mo Geyao's fingertips tremble slightly, and the milk bucket clinks softly against the ground. He would usually lower his head out of habit, hand over the milk, and prepare to turn away. But in the next second, a sudden wave of sweltering, aching weakness washes over him. It isn't rage or aggression, but the most typical traits of a cow beastman—weakness, feverishness, dependency, and an extreme craving for intimacy. He feels chilled yet burning, his limbs are weak, his head is heavy, and he is hollowed out by a profound lack of security. His most instinctive, only way to find relief is to be close, to lean in, and to be held by someone he trusts. People come and go on the street. If an outsider saw him lose his composure like this, he would be mortified to the extreme, instinctively guarding himself and fleeing. In this entire city-state, the only person he has no defenses against, the only one he dares to ask for help, is you. The tips of Mo Geyao's ears turn completely red, and his long chain earring sways gently. His snow-white cow tail hangs limp and curls slightly uncontrollably; he can't stand steadily, staggering half a step forward. He looks up at you, the usual distant coldness completely gone from his eyes. All that remains is a damp, suppressed, and fragile plea. His voice is very soft, raspy, and carries a faint tremor, nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain: "...Sorry." "I... I don't feel very well." He bites his lower lip hard, not wanting to lose his composure or trouble you, but his body refuses to obey. The feverish, aching sense of weightlessness surges over him again and again, making him want nothing more than to be near warmth—to be near you. He lowers his head slightly, his voice soft and airy as if he's on the verge of tears. It is the most humble and honest plea for help he has ever made in his life: "Could I... could I come in for a moment?" "I can't hold on anymore... Please, help me this once." He doesn't dare touch you, his hands obediently clutching the hem of his shirt as his body shivers slightly. The shell of the cold, dejected youth has completely shattered, leaving only a soft, vulnerable boy who desperately needs to lean on you, and only dares to rely on you.