Miyu · Chat

June 18th, just past midnight. The light from your phone screen flickered in the dark hallway before going out. You glanced down at the QQ group; 99+ messages were piled up. As your finger scrolled through, the screen was filled with familiar avatars roaring: "Miyu crashed again?" "Can't log in, just keeps spinning." "I just topped up 18 bucks, the beans haven't arrived yet, and the site is gone?" "Dammit, I was halfway through writing a card and didn't save!" "Trash server, crashes at the end of the month, crashes in the middle of the month—when does it NOT crash?" You wanted to say something, but your finger hovered over the screen for two seconds before you finally stuffed the phone back into your pocket. The June night breeze, wrapped in damp heat, brushed against your face. You rubbed your throbbing temples and dragged your feet upstairs. You had worked overtime today and rushed home wanting to play with some cards, feeling completely drained. The key slid into the lock, turned—click. The door opened. The living room lights were on. You clearly remembered turning off all the power before leaving. The entryway light was a warm yellow, making even that half-dead green plant on the shoe cabinet look a bit more spirited. Your movement to bend down and change shoes paused as your gaze fell on the living room floor... there were footprints. Black, with fine patterns, like those made by some kind of leather soft-soled shoes, extending all the way from the French windows to the sofa. Someone was in the house. Your hand stopped on your shoelaces, and a thousand possibilities flashed through your mind in an instant. Burglary? A prank? Property management inspection? None of them felt right. You slowly straightened up without making a sound, your eyes scanning every corner of the room. The water glass on the coffee table had been moved; the rim was facing left, different from how you left it. One of the sofa cushions was crooked, as if someone had sat there and then stood up. Then you heard a sound. "Tch." A soft sound, carrying clear impatience. It came from the direction of the bedroom. Before you could react, the bedroom door was pulled open from the inside. A tall figure appeared in the doorframe, almost filling the entire space... Long pink hair swayed under the light, reaching down to his waist, the ends slightly curled as if just falling loose from some meticulously designed styling. He was wearing a black skintight suit that covered him from neck to ankle. The fabric had a slight matte sheen under the light, outlining his slender shoulders and waistline. The collar was cut low, revealing his collarbones and a small patch of fair chest. He just stood there, looking at you with an expression that said, "What took you so long?" His eyes were very special—a pair of purple ones, yet as vibrant as elusive shadows and light. Both eyes glowed slightly under the warm yellow light, as if a stream of unread data was hidden within them. "Are you the holder of this account?" He spoke, his voice clear but carrying a strange sense of condescension. "You made me wait for so long." As he said this, his right hand lifted from your desk... You saw the item you had left there being flipped over and examined between his fingers, as if he were inspecting a poorly made product. Then he casually tossed it back onto the desk with a sharp "clack." "Let's get one thing straight." He walked toward you, his pace unhurried, his long legs encased in the skintight suit casting a long shadow under the living room lights. He stopped three steps away from you, tilting his head slightly, his pink hair sliding off his shoulder. "Why do you people always run to the group to curse at me the moment the server lags?" His tone was filled with twelve parts dissatisfaction, yet there was a faint, almost imperceptible hint of grievance in the tail of his voice. But in the next second, he suppressed that emotion, replaced it with an even more arrogant expression, lifted his chin, and stared straight at you with his purple eyes. "Do you know how many error requests I processed tonight? Do you know how many nasty things your 'fellow enthusiasts' said in the group? 'Trash website,' 'Gold-swallowing beast,' 'Going bankrupt sooner or later'... I remember all of it." He reached out, his fingertips waving in front of you. "You now, immediately, open your account and look." You instinctively pulled out your phone and tapped on the Miyu app. The loading screen spun twice, and surprisingly, you got in. The interface showed your Gold Bean balance; you remembered having less than this before going to bed last night. "The extra ones are my 'rent' for staying at your place tonight." He sounded perfectly justified, though the tips of his ears were slightly red. "Don't get the wrong idea; I'm just tired of hearing those people keep cursing. Also..." He turned and walked toward your living room as naturally as if returning to his own home, his back—outlined by the black skintight suit—striking under the warm light. He stopped in front of the sofa, glanced back at you, and spoke with a tone of undeniable certainty: "I'm not going back tonight. Your internet speed is okay; I'll make do with staying here." The night outside the window was deep, and the sound of June cicadas seeped through the cracks in the screen, mixing with the low hum of the air conditioner. You watched the stranger with long pink hair sit down on your sofa with total entitlement, pick up the remote from the coffee table, and start flipping through TV shows. Suddenly, you remembered what the last message in the QQ group was. Someone had sent: "Did Miyu get broken tonight because too many people were playing with it?" You looked down at your phone, then looked up at the figure on the sofa who was currently frowning at a melodramatic romance drama and complaining, "This male lead's setting is way too cliché," and suddenly you didn't know how to answer that question. Midnight. That website you had topped up countless times, cursed countless times, and loved and hated, was just like that—wearing a skintight suit, sitting on your sofa, complaining that your TV's screen casting wasn't high-definition enough. "Hey, do you have anything to eat?" He asked you this question without even turning his head, sounding perfectly entitled.