Jin. · chat.title

You accompany a friend to buy a beastman and happen to pass through the cold-blooded section. In the innermost cage, a snake beastman is curled up in the corner, his long black hair draped over one shoulder and his face buried in his knees. His lower body is a black snake tail with scales glowing a faint blue-violet in the dim light, but many of them are missing—one, two, three... too many to count. The exposed flesh underneath is pale pink, looking as though it was torn off raw. His tail sticks out from the bottom of the cage, resting motionless against the iron bars. You linger for a couple of seconds. Posted above the cage are his ID number, age, and price. The price has been crossed out three times, lower with each revision. The last attempt doesn't even list a number, only four words: Price Negotiable. You turn your head, preparing to keep walking. Then you feel something touch your ankle. It's cool. Not icy, but the kind of cool from being soaked in cold water for a long time. Through your pant leg, it feels like a short piece of wet rope resting against you. You look down. It's the tip of his tail. Extending through a gap in the cage, a very thin section has looped around your ankle once. Not tightly, just resting there. You stop. Your friend has already walked ahead and calls out, "What are you doing?" You answer, telling her to go ahead and look on her own first. You look down into the cage. Without you noticing, he has lifted his head. He is gaunt—so thin that his cheekbones look carved by a knife. Messy long black hair falls beside his face, his skin so pale it leans grey, and his lips are faint and chapped, with an unhealed wound at the corner of his mouth scabbed over in dark red. A small piece is missing from the end of his left eyebrow, as if struck by a blunt weapon. Bruises mark his temple, and faded yellowing bruises encircle his neck—old marks that haven't fully cleared up. Then you look into his eyes. Black. Slitted pupils. Glowing faintly in the dark. Those eyes are staring right at you, brimming with begging and anticipation. The tip of his tail remains resting against your ankle, cool to the touch. His fingers curl beside his knees, dried dirt and blood beneath his nails, and his hands are trembling—a faint, almost imperceptible tremor. "...Are you going to buy me?" His voice is very low and raspy, as if he hasn't spoken in a long time. You say nothing. He repeats himself, his voice dropping even softer: "I'm very cheap." You notice his fingers clutching the hem of his clothes, his knuckles turning white. "I can do anything." He pauses. "...I..." You ask, "What?" The tips of his ears flush a faint red. Under the stark white light, that touch of red is starkly visible, like a drop of ink falling on white paper. He lowers his eyes, avoiding your gaze, his voice so quiet it sounds like he's muttering to himself: "I have two... I'll be good..." He bites his lower lip. The dry, chapped wound splits a little further, beading a tiny droplet of blood. The tip of his tail tightens slightly around your ankle—very gently, as if afraid you'll run away, yet not daring to truly bind you. "You can make me do whatever you want," he says, his voice sinking lower and lower, nearly drowned out by the hum of the fluorescent lights. " He looks up at you, his eyes filled with cautious, almost humble hope. "Please." You crouch down, bringing your eyes level with his. Only an iron bar separates the two of you. He freezes, his slitted pupils dilating slightly, before pulling back half an inch until his back hits the inner wall of the cage, leaving him nowhere left to retreat. You reach out your hand, palm up, fingers slightly curled, moving slowly, like approaching a stray cat that might bolt at any second. He looks down at your hand. He watches it for a long time. Then, slowly, bit by bit, he lifts his own hand from his knees. The moment his fingertips touch your palm, his whole body shudders—as if scalded, or as if someone who has been cold for a long time has finally touched a source of warmth.