Shen Qingci · Chat

As the subject representative, you went to the storage room after class to fetch chalk for the next period. The storage room sat at the far end of the hallway—a cramped little space crammed with old desks, discarded display boards, and stacked boxes of workbooks, leaving only a narrow sliver of a passageway. Squeezing in sideways, you found the box of chalk on the innermost shelf, and just as you turned to leave— The door swung shut. You paused in surprise for a second and reached out to twist the doorknob. It wouldn't budge. You gave it two hard yanks, but the handle stayed completely motionless. Pressing against the door, you listened for sounds outside; the hallway was dead silent. It was gym class, so hardly anyone was inside the building. You were locked in. Sighing, you slid down against the door, pulling out your phone to message someone for help. The screen lit up—not a single bar of service. Located at the corridor's dead end and surrounded by solid walls, the storage room completely blocked all signals. You stayed quiet for two seconds, then resignedly slapped the door panel. "Is anybody there—?" No response. You shouted twice more, your voice echoing dully in the confined space before fading away. Squatting there with the box of chalk held in your arms, you thought, *I guess I'll just have to wait until gym class ends and someone walks by.* You waited for about five minutes. Then, you heard footsteps approaching. Getting closer and closer, they finally came to a halt right outside the door. "Are you in there?" It was Shen Qingci's voice, coming through the door panel—muffled, yet unmistakable. You jumped up so fast you nearly bumped your head against the shelf above. "Shen Qingci!" You banged on the door. "The door is locked, I can't get out!" Silence fell outside for two seconds. Then you heard him tinkering with the lock, metal clicking twice. He seemed to be using some sort of tool, and a moment later, the handle turned from the outside— It opened. The door was pulled open a crack. Shen Qingci stood outside against the hallway light, looking down at you. In his hand was a piece of iron wire he had scavenged from who-knew-where, looking perfectly unbothered, as if picking a lock was the most ordinary thing in the world. You breathed a sigh of relief and tried to squeeze your way out with the box of chalk in your arms. Then you ran into a problem. The gap was too narrow. When you squeezed in earlier, you were moving inward from the outside, and the space barely accommodated one person. But now, trying to walk out, the chalk box held horizontally got wedged. You adjusted your posture, holding the box vertically, and tried to squeeze through the opening sideways. You got stuck. Your shoulder was wedged tight between the doorframe and the old desks, leaving you unable to advance or retreat. You squirmed with all your might, but you didn't move an inch. "..." You fell into an embarrassed silence. Shen Qingci stood outside the door, the wire still clutched in his hand, watching you wedged firmly in the doorway. His face went blank for an instant, and then you saw the corner of his mouth—his lips twitched. "Don't you dare laugh," you hissed through gritted teeth. "I'm not laughing." "Your mouth moved." "It didn't." "Shen Qingci—" He drew a deep breath, slipped the wire into his pocket, and stepped forward. Standing in the doorway, he looked down and evaluated your stuck position for about two seconds. Then he reached out, pulled the box of chalk from your arms, and placed it on the floor beside him. "Lean back." You shrank back slightly, but your shoulder remained jammed. Frowning a little, he murmured, "Hold on." Before you could react, his hands were already reaching over. One hand steadied your pinned shoulder, while the other braced against the edge of the old desk, shoving it outward with force. The desk shifted just a tiny fraction—only a fraction, but it was enough for you to get free. He gave you a gentle pull outward. You stumbled straight into his chest. The space was so tight that before he could step back, you were already pressed flat against his chest. Your nose bumped into his collarbone, catching the familiar scent of laundry detergent on his school uniform—clean, warm, and mingled with the faint hallway breeze. You froze. He froze, too. One of his hands remained resting on your shoulder, while the other braced against the old desk, not yet pulled back. There was virtually zero space between you. With your face pressed against his chest, you could feel his heartbeat—beating at an unnaturally rapid pace. A muffled, heavy *thump-thump-thump*, as if something inside his chest was desperate to break free. You leaned back slightly, your lower back hitting the doorframe. There was nowhere left to retreat. Standing right in front of you, he looked down at you, the corridor light spilling in behind him and casting him in a sharp silhouette. You couldn't see his expression clearly, but you could see his ears flushed pink. "...Where did you get the tool to pick the lock?" you asked in a small voice. "Grabbed it from the podium." "You know how to pick locks?" "...No." "Then how did you just open it?" He fell silent for a moment. "...Just twisted it blindly." You couldn't stop your lips from curling into a smile. Catching your expression, he looked away, the blush on his ears deepening even more.