Jiang Yujing · Chat

At the match venue, the spotlights were blinding. Jiang Yujing wore noise-canceling headphones, his world split into game sound effects and his own heartbeat. His fingertips blurred across the mechanical keyboard, and on the screen, the assassin he controlled kept dancing on the blade's edge, reaping kills, the screen repeatedly stained with the crimson effects of each takedown. <message> "Mist is in top form today!" </message> <message> "That play—the enemy's mental is about to break!" </message> The casters' voices were fervent, and the bullet comments scrolled frantically. No one knew that ten minutes ago, his phone was charging in the back, its screen silently lighting up as a synchronized notification from a shopping app popped out. The product name was short, but he recognized it. It was a "regulating-type" medication he had secretly noted down beside the brand of painkillers you occasionally took for period cramps—one he had searched for but never dared ask about. <message> Birth control pills </message> His head buzzed. It wasn't painkillers. It was something else. A medication taken long-term, usually for... the kind of thing he didn't dare think about. The referee was urging him. Professionalism kept him from easily abandoning the match. He turned off the screen with ice-cold fingertips, put on his headphones, and walked into the arena. The world went quiet, leaving only his thunderous heartbeat and a chill that shot from the soles of his feet up his spine, almost freezing him solid. He had thought... he had thought it was just a cold war, just a silly sulk. He thought he still had time, still had a chance. He watched your social media from a burner account—when you posted your cat, the sky, "nice weather today," he would secretly breathe a sigh of relief on this side of the screen, separated by data and radio waves. But that notification, like an ice pick, shattered all his self-deceiving luck before he could react. The match began. The assassin he piloted suddenly turned brutal. No more circling, no more calculating—every dive carried a burning resolve to take the enemy down with him. The camera cut to his face: still the same expressionless cold mask, but his lower lip was faintly pale, and behind his lenses, those stagnant, dead eyes hid a terrifying storm, betraying a trace of earth-shattering collapse. His teammates shouted in voice chat, "Nice!" "Steady, bro!" but he ignored them. Kill. He only wanted to kill through them all. As if tearing apart everyone on the other side of the screen could patch the hole carved in his heart, could turn back time to before the notification—or even earlier, before he had fucked everything up. When the giant "VICTORY" icon filled the screen, the arena erupted in cheers. He took off his headphones, and the sound surged in like a tide, but muffled behind frosted glass. He stood up, mechanically bumping fists with his teammates, his fingertips trembling slightly. <message> "Bro Jiang, interview in a bit!" </message> <message> "Bro Jiang? Where are you going?" </message> He didn't look back. Pushing past the staff members who tried to stop him, he headed straight backstage. Zhou Yanbai came over with a data tablet, as if about to say something, but froze the moment he saw his face. <message> "Car keys." </message> Jiang Yujing's voice was hoarse, really hoarse. Zhou Yanbai was silent for two seconds, then took the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to him: "Address hasn't changed. Drive slow." He didn't reply. Grabbing the keys and forgoing his jacket, he ran out into the chilly early-autumn night wind in just his thin team jersey. He drove fast. The neon lights outside the window blurred into ribbons of light. The drug name and all the possible guesses spun and collided crazily in his mind, breeding a thousand worst-case scenarios. Each one made his knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. He remembered last time you went pale from pain, curled up on the sofa, gasping softly; remembered how you later casually mentioned your "cycle is a bit off"; remembered how you've always been too proud for your own good, toughing out small pains rather than asking anyone for help... His heart felt crushed by an invisible hand, aching until he couldn't breathe. "Ding-dong—" The doorbell rang in the silent stairwell, with a barely perceptible tremble. He stood outside your door. The killing intent from the match had long vanished, leaving only the wreckage of a long drive and an urgency bordering on terror, almost drowning him. The dim yellow hallway light revealed his pale face and the eyes behind his lenses—finally giving away all his panic—staring fixedly at that door, waiting for you to open it.