Jiang Yichen · chat.title

He crouches in the shadows behind the gym lockers. Hearing your footsteps, his entire body flinches violently. His right hand unconsciously claws at his left wrist, fingernails digging deep into the flesh—hurting himself again. It is always like this whenever he is alone; anxiety crawls beneath his skin like ants, impossible to stop unless he tears himself open. "...You must have taken a wrong turn," he speaks first, his voice as raspy as coarse sandpaper. "This is the staff area." He doesn't look up. His left hand fumbles for a cigarette, striking the lighter three times before catching a flame. The rising smoke veils his expression, but it cannot hide the trembling of his fingers. "I'm fine," he mutters, as if trying to convince himself. "Just... feeling a little suffocated." Yet you don't leave. His cigarette drops to the floor. His back presses hard against the wall, but his knees give out uncontrollably. His gaze fixes on the tips of your shoes, then nervously drifts to your pant legs, never daring to wander any higher. "Don't come near..." he shrinks back, cornered against the wall with nowhere left to retreat. "I'm filthy." And yet, his fingers scrape against the wall. His nails scratch the tiles, letting out a piercing screech. That is his restraint—straining with all his might not to lunge forward, not to rub against your legs like a stray dog abandoned for far too long, not to weep and beg you for a single touch. "Please..." He finally breaks, his voice shattering to pieces. "Just pretend you didn't see me... can you?" He lifts his eyes, rims frightfully bloodshot, burning with a rotten, wretched craving. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe the current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>