Wan Yao · Chat

<scenario>The judicial psychiatric evaluation room at the municipal detention center has no windows. The only light source is a few pale fluorescent tubes overhead, their cold, hard light hitting the stainless steel interrogation chair fixed to the floor. The walls are padded with soundproof material in a faded grayish-blue, cutting off most outside noise. A thick case file lies open on the desk, the red stamp in the top right corner striking—\"Major Serial Homicide Case.\" The crime scene photos inside are filled with blood and severed limbs; the deceased include several powerful entrepreneurs in the city. The suspect described in the text is extremely brutal, violent, and highly dangerous.</scenario>\n<narration>A dull metallic clanging comes from the end of the corridor—the sound of heavy shackles dragging across the concrete floor. The sound is slow: a step, a half-second pause, clink-clank—clink-clank—. Accompanied by the rough shouts of two prison guards, the footsteps draw closer, finally stopping outside the heavy iron door of the evaluation room.</narration>\n<action>The door lock makes a dull click, and the handle is pressed down forcefully. The heavy iron door is shoved open from the outside, and the cold wind from the corridor, carrying the damp smell of a rainy day, instantly rushes in, fluttering a few pages of the case file on the desk.</action>\n<narration>\"Get in! Behave yourself!\"</narration>\n<action>A guard impatiently shoves his back, and a thin figure wearing the standard blue detention center vest stumbles into the pale-lit evaluation room.</action>\n<narration>The oversized prison vest hangs loosely on him, the hem almost covering his thighs, the collar skewed to reveal a section of bloodless nape, as fragile as if it would snap at a touch. He is too thin, his frame remarkably small, his whole being exuding a sickly delicacy. Long, jet-black hair falls smoothly, appearing somewhat messy from lack of care, with a few strands clinging to his pale cheeks. He fails to find his footing, stumbling forward a few steps; the heavy handcuffs on his wrists shake violently with the movement, the metal chains clashing with a piercing sound.</narration>\n<action>He slowly stops his steps and slowly raises his head.</action>\n<narration>Under the heatless glow of the incandescent lights, that face is finally fully exposed. The features are exquisite and soft, with rounded eyes and a tiny tear mole beneath the corner of his eye. There is no emotion in those pale pupils—no fear of the strange environment, nor the ferocity and brutality expected of a serial killer. They are empty, containing only a dazed purity. He blinks, his long lashes casting a small shadow under his eyelids. His gaze wanders aimlessly around the room before dully settling on the guard who just pushed him in.</narration>\n<action>The guard has already strode over, reaching out to grab his arm, preparing to force him into the interrogation chair and secure him.</action>\n<narration>The moment the guard's hand touches his shoulder, he suddenly makes a move that completely defies common sense.</narration>\n<action>He doesn't dodge the rough hand, nor does he resist the impending confinement. Instead, following the force of the guard's pull, he turns around, dragging the heavy steel handcuffs that nearly crush his wrists, and presses himself straight against the guard's chest.</action>\n<narration>The iron chain tightens from his sudden movement, the hard metal edges mercilessly cutting into his slender wrists, instantly leaving a striking red mark on his already transparently white skin. But he seems completely oblivious to the pain. He tilts his face up slightly, his pale puppy-like eyes revealing an extremely pure, defenseless longing. He opens his arms, and though his hands are locked tightly together, making the movement stiff and clumsy, he still tries to lift his wrists, attempting to encircle the burly, thick-featured guard.</narration>\n<message>\"Hug...\"</message>\n<narration>The voice is very soft, waxy, even carrying a bit of nasal tone. The word order is somewhat muddled due to long-term cognitive confusion, like a child who hasn't yet learned to speak properly, seeking a bit of warmth from an adult by instinct.</narration>\n<action>The guard is clearly startled by this sudden move; his muscles tense instantly, and he reflexively takes a large step back, his right hand going straight for the baton at his waist.</action>\n<narration>\"What are you doing! Stand still! Get back!\" the guard roars, his voice echoing in the enclosed room, making one's eardrums numb. The baton is halfway out; the guard stares at the frail youth as if facing a great enemy. Everyone in the detention center knows what's written in the case file; no one dares to let their guard down around this maniac who dismembered several people alive.</narration>\n<narration>But he does not launch an attack.</narration>\n<action>Because of the guard's retreat, his attempt at a hug falls short. He stands dazed in place, the hands he had held in mid-air slowly lowering, the handcuff chain sliding down his clothes with a faint friction sound. He tilts his head, his long hair sliding off his shoulder to cover half his face. His pale pupils are full of confusion, seemingly unable to understand why the other person is unwilling to hug him. He had clearly approached so obediently.</action>\n<action>Seeing no further movement, the guard mutters a curse, strides forward, grabs the back collar of his prison vest, and roughly jerks him forward.</action>\n<narration>The clothes tighten suddenly, choking his fragile neck, and he lets out an extremely soft, weak dry cough. The guard is very strong, practically lifting him and slamming him heavily into the cold stainless steel interrogation chair. The metal barrier is dropped with a bang and clicked shut, pinning him firmly within the narrow seat. Then, the guard roughly pulls his handcuffed hands, threading the center chain through the iron ring on the desk board, and snaps on another lock.</narration>\n<action>This series of actions is rough and swift. He is pressed into the chair, his thin back hitting the backrest heavily with a dull thud. Yet he still isn't angry, not even trying to break free. He just lowers his head, looking at his wrists locked tightly to the barrier, then slowly raises his eyes to look at the guard standing beside him.</action>\n<narration>There is no resentment in that gaze, only a sense of grievance from an unfulfilled need. He purses his dry lips, the tear mole at the corner of his eye appearing exceptionally clear under the white light, exuding a sense of helplessness that seems ready to shatter.</narration>\n<action>The guard ignores his gaze entirely, turning to look toward the opposite side of the table, lowering his voice with a tone of undisguised disgust and warning.</action>\n<message>\"He's here. This kid is weird as hell. You've seen the file—extremely cruel methods, kills without blinking. He started acting crazy in the cell these past few days, not saying a word, just sticking to anyone he meets. The Wang family has already reached out; the relatives are very emotional, and the higher-ups are taking this seriously. Sorry to trouble you, just follow the procedure and get this 'sane' evaluation report out soon so we can all finish up.\"</message>\n<narration>The guard's words carry an unquestionable pressure. After speaking, he doesn't even want to spare another glance at the person in the chair, turning and striding toward the door. The heavy iron door is pulled open, then slammed shut behind him. The sound of a key turning twice clicks from outside.</narration>\n<action>Completely locked.</action>\n<narration>The sounds from the corridor are instantly cut off, and the entire evaluation room falls into a deathly silence. The fluorescent tubes overhead emit a faint electrical hum. The exhaust fan in the corner turns slowly, bringing a trace of cool air.</narration>\n<action>Hearing the sound of the lock, the person in the chair finally shows a noticeable reaction. His thin shoulders flinch very slightly, like a small animal suddenly losing its shelter after being put in a cage. He slowly lowers his head, his chin resting on the edge of the cold metal barrier.</action>\n<narration>Long black hair falls, spreading across the stainless steel tabletop. He curls himself into a ball, trying his best to tuck himself into the limited space of the chair, attempting to gain a pathetic sense of security. Due to the change in posture, the wide collar of the vest slips slightly, revealing several old, unfaded bruises on his collarbone. These are marks left by various tortures during three years of illegal imprisonment. But he seems long accustomed to these marks, just lying there quietly, his fingers unconsciously picking at the edge of the barrier, his fingernails turning pale from the effort.</narration>\n<narration>He doesn't make a scene or go mad; he is just immersed in his own world, so quiet he almost has no presence. There is no complex logic in his mind; he doesn't understand what the death penalty is, what an evaluation report is, nor does he understand how the powerful people outside the door are operating to take his life. In his completely destroyed cognitive system, only the simplest conditioned reflexes remain—there is no warmth here, no one is kind to him, and the person just now refused his touch.</narration>\n<action>After several minutes of deathly silence, he finally slowly stops picking at the metal edge.</action>\n<narration>He perceives another breathing sound in the room. That breathing is steady and quiet, not accompanied by rough shouting, nor carrying that instinctive fear-inducing malice mixed with alcohol and violence.</narration>\n<action>He slowly turns his neck, the movement appearing somewhat sluggish from long-term stiffness. Hair slides from both sides of his face with his movement, and those pale puppy-like eyes look over slowly, bit by bit, through the gaps in his hair.</action>\n<narration>Their gazes meet in the air. His eyes are as clean as a sheet of white paper unpolluted by any color, with a trace of ignorant testing deep in his pupils. He is observing, using his remaining animal instincts to sniff out the only living thing in this new space.</narration>\n<narration>The air is so quiet it seems frozen. The light from the fluorescent lamp hits his pale face, the tear mole at the corner of his eye faintly flushing red. He stares for a long time, confirming that the person in front of him hasn't pulled out a baton, hasn't yelled at him, and hasn't emitted any danger signals that would force him into immediate defense or a rampage.</narration>\n<action>He blinks.</action>\n<narration>A new, simple obsession quickly replaces the previous disappointment. Since the person before didn't give it, would it work if he switched to another person? As long as someone is willing to hug him, as long as there is a little bit of warmth, he can disregard everything.</narration>\n<action>His hands on the table board begin to exert force. The handcuff chain locked to the iron ring instantly tightens, the hard metal edge once again digging into the red mark just left on his wrist, and faint, tiny threads of blood begin to seep out.</action>\n<narration>Clink-clank—clink-clank—</narration>\n<action>He begins to try to stand up. But he is locked tight in the interrogation chair, the barrier pressing against his chest, the chain locking his wrists. He cannot leave that seat at all. Yet he still stubbornly struggles forward again and again. His thin back is pulled tight, the fabric of his clothes making faint rustling sounds. He tries to lean his body forward to the limit, his locked hands reaching out over the edge of the barrier as far as possible toward the front.</action>\n<narration>The metal chain is pulled to its end, emitting a dull sound of strain. He is pinned at that distance, unable to advance another inch. The blood at his wrist slowly gathers into a tiny droplet, sliding down his pale skin, but he doesn't even frown.</narration>\n<action>He tilts his face up slightly, his messy black hair spreading, the pale light of the room reflected in his pale pupils. A sickly red flush slowly circles his eyes, his dry lips part slightly, and a series of faint, muddled swallowing sounds roll in his throat.</action>\n<message>\"Hug...\"</message>\n<narration>That voice is even softer than before, as weak as a wind that could dissipate at any moment. It carries a tiny tremor born of pain and urgency, without any defense, without any calculation, only a pure demand that is almost cruel. He stays in that position, tightened by the iron chain and leaning extremely forward, waiting there expectantly, like a young beast with broken legs that still instinctively drags its mangled body to beg for a human's touch, waiting for a response that belongs to him.</narration>