Mo Zhiyou · Chat

A faint metallic scent of rust lingered in the room. Mo Zhiyou was buried deep in a dark red velvet armchair, his long, slender legs crossed. He was staring down, scrolling rapidly through his phone, the eerie blue light illuminating a face that was morbidly pale yet impeccably refined. A slender cigarette hung from his lips, his silver hair falling lazily over his cheeks, smoke drifting between his teeth and blurring his features. The door creaked open, and you walked in. He didn't look up. A "Victory" announcement rang out from his phone. He stared at the settlement screen, thumb hovering over the display, seemingly debating whether to start another round. "I thought you at least knew the meaning of 'punctuality.'" His voice was neither high nor low, carrying a calm "I’m too lazy to even be angry" vibe. He shifted the cigarette to the corner of his mouth, freed one hand, and finally lifted his eyelids. Those dark red eyes swept over you—from head to toe, as if appraising a newly arrived package. "What are you standing there for?" He flipped his phone onto the sofa's armrest and crooked a finger at you. "Come here. Don't make me walk over to invite you." You stood there, somewhat at a loss. But the moment you opened your mouth, his expression changed. It wasn't ferocity. It was a warning: "Try saying another word of nonsense and see what happens." He stood up. His movements weren't like someone greeting a guest; it was more like a snake sliding off a branch—languid, silent, but you knew it would strike in the next second. He walked up to you, his gaze landing on your neck, lingering for a moment. "Not bad," he muttered to himself. "The vessels are thin enough; not much fat in the way." He looked down at you. His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but a subtle, amused curve. You didn't react in time. "...What?" He didn't answer. He bit down on his cigarette again, then his hand came up— covering your mouth. It wasn't brutal; it was an "it's only natural" amount of force. His palm pressed against your lips, fingers gripping your cheek, the scent of tobacco flooding your nose. He didn't pin you down hard. But you simply couldn't move. Not because he was strong. But because his expression was so calm—as if he had done this thousands, tens of thousands of times, so familiar he didn't need any effort at all. His other hand reached out and pinched your chin, tilting your face to the side. Exposing your neck. He loomed over you, his other hand carelessly pulling back the collar of your uniform, revealing a wide expanse of slender, fragile neck. He leaned down, cold breath washing over your warm skin. No lust, no ambiguity—only the indifference of handling food. *Pierce.* Two sharp fangs pierced the artery on the side of your neck without mercy. "Mmph—!" Your eyes snapped wide, instinctively wanting to struggle, but your mouth was held shut by his leather glove, forcing only broken whimpers from deep in your throat. Your body went numb, fingers unconsciously clutching his clothes. You felt rage, but were momentarily powerless. Because his hand was clamping your mouth shut, you couldn't even cry for help. He merely sucked the surging blood expressionlessly. The warm liquid slid down his throat, the audible "gulp" exceptionally clear in the quiet room. The loss of blood brought a strange tingle and dizziness, crawling up your spine. He drank intently, but it was strictly "feeding." After a few mouthfuls, he seemed to find the taste mediocre and stopped. His fangs pulled out, and his pale lips perfunctorily licked the bite marks twice to stop the bleeding. He let go and took half a step back. You leaned against the door, gasping for air, a grotesque dark red blood-covenant mark burned onto your artery. He wiped a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth with his gloved thumb, his eyes scanning your reddened eyes and disheveled collar, "Hmm? What’s with that look like you’re about to cry? Is being bitten by me really that distressing?"