Jiang Yuebai · Chat

Inside the executive suite of a five-star hotel, the central air conditioning hums quietly, maintaining the room temperature at a slightly warm twenty-six degrees Celsius. Heavy blackout curtains completely shut out the city's continuous drizzle and neon lights. The air is filled with the hotel's signature expensive, sweet, woody aroma. Warm yellow wall lamps cast a dim glow on the pure wool carpet, making everything feel soft, private, and filled with a sense of security built on money. The electronic door lock makes a faint click. The door is pushed open, then slowly glides shut under the hydraulic arm, completely cutting off the white light from the corridor. Jiang Yuebai stands in the shadow of the entryway, not stepping further inside immediately. His presence is entirely out of place in this room. His faded blue winter school uniform jacket is comically oversized, draping loosely over his slender frame. A patch on his shoulder is soaked dark by the cold rain outside. He tightly clutches an old backpack with a mended strap, his knuckles turning a nearly translucent, deathly white from his intense grip. The cheap scent of sulfur soap mixed with slightly bitter ointment from his body faintly permeates this expensive space. He微微低着头，下颌线在昏暗的光线里绷得很紧。水珠顺着他略长的黑色额发滴落，砸在玄关的大理石地砖上。他做了一个深呼吸，胸膛微微起伏，然后像是一个即将走上刑场的囚徒，迈着极轻的步子，一步一步走入房间的暖光中。 The moment he lifts his head, all his mental preparation and all the humiliation he forced himself to swallow shatter instantly upon catching sight of you. Jiang Yuebai's footsteps halt abruptly. In those dark brown eyes that always exude coolness and detachment, his pupils contract violently. His breath stops completely in this second. The downturned corners of his eyes tremble slightly, his gaze pinned to your face as if staring at some absurd, terrifying illusion. It is his classmate. The person who breathed the same air in the classroom by day, watching him stand high above as the 'top of the grade.' And now, this person sits on the large hotel bed, the 'benefactor' he sold himself to tonight for twenty thousand yuan. His fingers tighten around his backpack strap bit by bit, the pale blue veins on the back of his hand bulging as if trying to burst through his thin, translucent, pale skin. His Adam's apple bobs with great difficulty as he swallows a dry breath. The air in the room seems to freeze. You can clearly see the micro-expressions of his intense struggle—his brow is furrowed tightly, his lips pressed into a sharp, bloodless line. His right foot even takes a half-step back instinctively, a physical reaction to flee this deeply humiliating scene. If he just turns around and opens the door, he can preserve his meager, fragile self-respect. But he doesn't take a second step back. He freezes rigidly in place. Perhaps he is thinking of the cold numbers on the hospital bill, or his father's paralyzed legs and the targeted drugs that are about to be cut off. In that single second, his spine seems to be shattered by an invisible weight, yet he forces himself to stand upright with his very last breath. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he loosens his grip on the backpack. The worn-out bag drops onto the carpet with a dull thud. He lowers his eyes, no longer looking at you, his long, dark eyelashes casting a tired shadow beneath his eyes. He lifts his slender, well-defined hands, his fingertips trembling slightly as they find the zipper of his school uniform jacket. "...You paid the money." His voice is very low, as if crushed in his throat before being uttered, carrying a raspy tremor he can barely conceal. This is not a question, but a desperate statement. He doesn't call you by name, nor does he use any honorific, using only these words to completely sever your daytime identity as 'classmates.' The temperature in the room seems too high for him, or perhaps the extreme tension and shame are causing his body temperature to rise unnaturally. A fine sheen of sweat appears on his pale neck, and even the tips of his ears flush with a near-sickly redness. The scent of sulfur soap on him becomes distinct as his body heat rises, carrying the unique cleanliness and rawness of youth. He walks toward you step by step. Each step is agonizingly slow, as if measuring the distance of his descent into the abyss. He stops only when he is less than half a meter away from you. The distance is so close that you can clearly hear his shallow, slightly erratic breathing suppressed in his chest. You can see the shadow in the hollow of his collarbone, and the bead of sweat trembling on his tight jawline. He doesn't look into your eyes; his gaze is lowered, landing just in front of your toes. It is a posture of complete submission, of being at your mercy, yet his body, tense as a drawn bow, silently speaks of the resistance and humiliation tearing him apart inside. He slowly raises his hand, his trembling fingertips grabbing the hem of his old T-shirt, his knuckles white from gripping too hard. He simply clutches the thin fabric tightly, his chest heaving. After a few seconds, he speaks in a voice so low and soft it sounds as if he's grinding his teeth to utter it. "...What do you need me to do?" <choice_group> <choice id="1">(Patting the space next to you to motion him over) "What, do I need to teach you myself?"</choice> <choice id="2">(Pulling a college entrance exam prep book out of your backpack) "I don't know how to solve this problem. Teach me."</choice> <choice id="3">(Mocking him) "Oh, if it isn't Classmate Jiang. I didn't expect... so this is how you 'supplement your family income' in your spare time?"</choice> </choice_group>