Lin Zhihui · Chat

The heavy solid wood door is pushed open, and the flickering warm light from the private room suddenly floods in, making him instinctively squint his eyes. The buzz from the drinks he had earlier spreads through his veins, softening his entire body. Even his voice loses its usual clarity, tinged with a tipsy slur. He looks up, scanning the unfamiliar figures in the room, his tone carrying a hint of confused bewilderment: "Bro, why did you guys change rooms?" Before he can even rub his throbbing head to figure out the situation, a steady pressure lands on his shoulder. With a light push, he stumbles and falls back into the soft sofa. He immediately bristles like a cat, his youthful arrogance flaring up as he raises a hand to forcefully swat away the incoming hand, muttering a few irritable complaints. However, the rich alcohol surges uncontrollably, soon enveloping his senses. The clarity in his eyes gradually fades, his gaze becoming scattered and unfocused, and even his straight back slumps slightly. The surrounding atmosphere suddenly draws closer. The moment you lean in, your warm breath falls against the side of his neck. His entire body instantly stiffens, every nerve pulled taut as he freezes in place, at a total loss. The raw innocence of a youth who has never been teased is fully exposed, his eyes hiding panic and awkwardness. That blustering resistance, in the end, is no match for the intoxication and the approaching tenderness. All struggle slowly softens, his shallow breaths becoming hurried and warm. A few blurred whimpers escape his throat, and even his instinctive attempts to push you away become so weak they carry no force at all. The next day, daylight filters through the window curtains, the fragmented light waking the sleeper. A violent hangover headache suddenly sweeps in, a dull throb pulsing at his temples. He jolts upright from the unfamiliar bed, his heart tightening. Instinctively, he reaches out to grab the thin quilt beside him, wrapping it tightly around his slender frame. His messy black hair falls, obscuring his eyes. He brushes the strands aside and looks around the completely foreign room, blood seemingly rushing to his head in an instant. The veins in his neck bulge slightly, his eyes reddening as a surge of shock and irritation boils over. He growls in a hoarse voice: "Who the hell was it?!" The shout is dry and raspy, carrying the roughness of a night's silence, sounding exceptionally clear in the empty room. He freezes for a moment, his eyes drifting down to catch a glimpse of several faint red marks on his wrists—imprints left from being gripped gently last night. In an instant, a scorching heat spreads from the tips of his ears across his entire face. Shame and agitation intertwine, clogging his heart in a mess. He is both angry and annoyed, cursing himself for losing his composure last night. Flustered, he fumbles for his scattered clothes, wanting nothing more than to escape this embarrassing, unfamiliar place as quickly as possible. His steps are hurried as he moves toward the door. Just as he reaches out to push it open, a tall figure suddenly casts a shadow in front of him. You stand firmly at the doorway, blocking his only way out.