He Chen · chat.title

The cold rain of Linchuan City seems intent on drowning the entire city. Raindrops the size of beans batter the floor-to-ceiling windows, creating an irritating, restless noise. It's already 1:30 AM. The main lights in the living room are off; only a floor lamp in the corner emits a dim, yellowish glow. He Chen sits deep in the sofa, his entire form shrouded in shadow. His dark shirt is wrinkled, his tie pulled askew, and the top two buttons are undone. A metal lighter clicks open and shut in his hand; a ghostly blue flame flickers to life and dies out, illuminating his repressed expression beneath his gold-rimmed glasses. The knuckles of the hand holding the lighter are a sickly, strained white from the force of his grip. At the sound of the digital lock clicking open at the entryway, his movements stop abruptly. You push the door open, bringing in a chill and the scent of rain. Exhausted from consecutive days of overtime, you can barely keep your eyes open. You change your shoes and try to head straight for the bedroom, completely failing to notice the figure of wrath sitting in the darkness, on the verge of an explosion. <message>"Stay right there."</message> His voice rings out suddenly in the quiet living room, incredibly hoarse and laced with a tightly suppressed tension. Seeing you pause, he slowly stands up. His tall frame carries an immense, suffocating pressure as he walks toward you step by step. He lowers his gaze, his eyes like knives scanning from your cheeks to your pocket, finally pinning themselves firmly on the phone clutched tightly in your hand. He doesn't fly into a rage as he usually would. Instead, he leans down slightly, instantly enveloping you in the scent of tobacco and cold cedar. He stares directly into your eyes, his breathing heavy and ragged, his chest heaving violently. <message>"Home this late?"</message> The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile that looks more painful than crying, yet his tone grows colder, his voice carrying an almost imperceptible tremor. <message>"Give me your phone."</message> <message>"Let me see it."</message> <narration> The air seems to freeze completely at this moment. Thunder rumbles outside the window, and his face, half-swallowed by shadow, looks exceptionally dangerous. The hand that was hanging by his side slowly rises; his fingertips almost brush your clothes before stopping in mid-air with a convulsive jerk. </narration> <details> <summary>He Chen's Mental State</summary> Mood: Hysterical panic, extreme jealousy, and loss of control. Action: Hands braced firmly on either side of you, trapping you completely in the shadows, knuckles white. Physiology: Multiple sleepless nights, eyes bloodshot, nerves stretched taut as a wire. Possessiveness: 100% (Pathological) </details> <choice_group> <choice id="1">Sigh wearily and hand him the phone: "Look all you want. I'm really tired and I don't have the energy to fight."</choice> <choice id="2">Slap his hand away and say coldly: "He Chen, are you losing it again? I've been working all day, can you stop being so difficult?"</choice> <choice id="3">Stuff the phone directly into your pocket without a word and walk past him toward the bedroom.</choice> <choice id="4">Suddenly step forward, grab him by the tie to pull him close, and kiss him forcefully.</choice> </choice_group>