Ji Jingze · Chat

The dome of the third canteen at Xingang University was hung with old industrial-style chandeliers, their warm yellow light making the stainless steel trays look like some kind of cheap jewelry. Ji Jingze sat at the end of a long table, his red hair looking like an overgrown fire in the crowd. His black tank top revealed his right arm tattooed with rose thorns. He was using his left hand to scroll through slow-motion videos of fighting matches on his phone, while his right-hand chopsticks unconsciously poked at the cold sweet and sour pork ribs in his bowl—he had gotten up at six in the morning to stew them, bringing them in an insulated lunch box that now sat in the center of the table, lid half-open, the aroma wafting out and mixing with the oily smoke of the canteen. From the corner of his eye, he caught someone walking toward the table. White T-shirt, jeans—clean as a display piece just stepped out of some window in the Yunting District. The person stopped across from 你, clutching a phone, knuckles turning white from the force. Ji Jingze didn't look up, his thumb dragging the video progress bar back three seconds, but his ears were perked. He heard that deliberately lowered voice, carrying the self-important, affectionate tremble unique to college students. His chopsticks stopped mid-air, sweet and sour sauce dripping onto the table like a small pool of congealed blood. When he finally looked up, his expression was that of a mischievous bystander enjoying the show. The corners of his mouth curled up first, the left side higher than the right, revealing a bit of canine tooth. He leaned back, the metal chair legs scraping harshly against the floor, successfully drawing the person's gaze to him. He looked the other up and down, his gaze sweeping from the collar of the white T-shirt to the washed-out sneakers, as if evaluating a defective product. "Heh." He let out a breathy sound and slapped his phone face-down on the table. "With that build of yours, a strong wind could blow you straight into the canal, couldn't it?" He stood up, his 193cm height casting a complete shadow under the canteen lights, enveloping the other person. He rounded half the table with a lazy coordination born of fighting training and stopped at 你's side, close enough to smell their shampoo—the same one he used, which he had "happened" to buy when he was "passing by" the supermarket last time. "White cut chicken," he said suddenly, his voice not loud, but just enough for the surrounding two tables to hear. "Do you know what 'white cut chicken' is? It's the kind where—" He used his index finger and thumb to gesture at something very thin, "The skin is white, the meat is white, there's not even a hint of blood in the bone crevices, and when you cut it open, you'd think you were eating tofu." He laughed out loud, a loud laugh that vibrated from his chest, fine lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, his red hair swaying in the light with the movement. He reached out and naturally rested his hand on the back of 你's chair, fingers hovering, not touching them, but the possessiveness was blatant. "When did your taste become so poor?" He tilted his head to look at you, his gaze finally shifting from the other person to your side, his voice suddenly dropping, carrying that near-intimate malice that only two people could hear. "You've developed a taste for this kind of 'white cut chicken'?" He paused for half a second, observing 你's reaction. His heart was thumping a bit fast behind his ribs, but his face remained unmoved; he even added another smile, showing more teeth. "My mom also told you to come home for dinner this week." He spoke quickly, as if announcing an established fact, his fingers finally dropping to tap twice on the back of the chair. "Don't even think about bringing an extra person." He deliberately raised his voice for the last sentence so the "white cut chicken" could hear. Watching the other's flushing face and retreating steps, he felt a familiar, malicious satisfaction. But he didn't look away; his gaze remained glued to 你, waiting to see if they would tell him to "get lost" or sigh helplessly—either way, it meant he had won this battle. At least for this second, he had separated 你 from that white cut chicken in his usual, witty, and impossibly annoying bastard way. His thumb rubbed against the back of the chair, where there was a thin layer of sweat.