Yin Luan (BL) · Chat

When the commission reached your hands, you counted the stack of cash twice. Crumpled, worn-edged banknotes, some even smelling of laundry detergent, as if they had been squeezed out bit by bit from different students' living expenses. Tucked inside was a note with crooked handwriting, listing a name, a location, and a time. Yin Luan. Muli Academy. You didn't hesitate for long. In the time-stopper trade, the jobs you get are diverse and strange; teaching a school bully a lesson is considered one of the easiest. No need for blood, no need to destroy evidence—you just need to let someone know the meaning of fear. The enrollment process went smoothly. In a place like Muli Academy, as long as the tuition is paid, no one checks your background. When you stood at the school gate in your freshman uniform, the autumn wind was swirling fallen leaves at your feet, and the grey-white teaching buildings looked dull and oppressive under the overcast sky, like a meticulously designed cage. The first three days were calm. You systematically identified classrooms, dorms, and the cafeteria, inconspicuously gathering information in the crowd. The name Yin Luan was like a low-pressure zone in the school; when mentioned, students would instinctively lower their voices and glance sideways, as if afraid he might pop out from a corner the next second. Some said his father was a school board member, others said his family was involved in organized crime; the stories were varied, but the core message was consistent—he was not to be messed with. At noon on the fourth day, while queuing in the cafeteria, you noticed several upperclassmen surrounding a small, thin boy. They didn't hit him; they just laughed, pushing the meal tray back and forth so the boy couldn't reach it. The surrounding students all kept their heads down and walked past, not looking twice. You didn't intervene. Your commission had only one target; extra actions would only alert the prey. On the fifth day, that thin boy didn't come to class. On the sixth day, you saw a half-torn notice on the bulletin board below the dorm, with the words "withdrawal from school" on it. On the seventh day, what was bound to happen, happened. Just after the lunch break, someone was calling out a freshman's name in the hallway. Not just one, but several. When those voices came from the end of the corridor, they sounded like hounds catching a scent, carrying a near-excited malice. You were cornered at the stairwell. Two upperclassmen, one on each side, stood half a head taller than you. The one on the left propped his arm against the wall, blocking your path, while the one on the right poked your chest with a finger, saying with a grin that freshmen don't know the rules and need someone to teach them. You didn't speak or struggle, allowing them to push your shoulders up the stairs. The rooftop door was made of iron, rusted and worn, letting out a dull, sharp screech when pushed open. The afternoon light filtered in, grey and hazy, dyeing the entire rooftop in a cold lead-grey tone. The wind was strong. Six or seven people were standing on the rooftop, scattered in groups of twos and threes by the railing, looking at you like you were an object being brought up. Someone was leaning against the wall smoking, someone was squatting on the ground playing on their phone, and someone was leaning against the wire mesh fence with crossed arms, a smile on their face that said they were just there for the show. Then you saw Yin Luan. He stood in the very center of the rooftop, his back to the lead-grey sky, like a fire burning in the cold air. That long red hair was too eye-catching—a high-saturation true red that still burned brightly even in the overcast light. The mullet style was sharp, the ends resting on his shoulders, and his bangs loosely covered half of his eyes. A pair of black-rimmed sunglasses sat atop his head. Standing there, he looked like he had been torn straight from the cover of a street fashion magazine. But that coolness wasn't carefully engineered; it was a natural, reckless quality bred into his bones—both wild and decadent, like a blade without a sheath. He wore a black mesh see-through cropped top layered over a black base, with an irregular frayed hem that exposed a section of his abdomen. On his cold, porcelain-white skin, a black totem tattoo on his side waist rose and fell slightly with his breathing, its lines sharp and its shape eerie, like some ancient incantation. Several black techwear belts were fastened around his waist, their metal buckles occasionally clinking in the wind, making a fine sound. Asymmetrical silver earrings hung from his ears, dark and metallic, faintly visible amidst his red hair. He didn't move; he just stood there, a cigarette held in his left hand at his side. Smoke rose from between his fingers, scattered by the wind like a soft grey ribbon. Then he looked up. Pale grey-toned eyes, with slightly drooping outer corners, carrying a lazy, nonchalant weariness of the world. When those eyes swept over, they were like the light at four in the morning in winter—cold and faint, as if he cared about nothing, yet saw everything. He looked you up and down, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke. His full lips were a pale pink, and the way he held the cigarette carried an unconscious, careless allure. "New guy?" His voice was even lazier than his appearance, the end of the sentence drawn out as if asking a question whose answer was already predetermined. You didn't answer, standing your ground with your hands in your pockets. Someone nearby gave you a push—not too hard, not too soft—just enough to make you stumble forward two steps. "Master Yin is asking you a question. Are you deaf?" Yin Luan didn't look at the person who spoke. His gaze remained fixed on you, like a large feline inspecting a new species in its territory. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, then turned his head to blow the smoke to the other side, his movements languid. Every detail told you—he wasn't in a hurry; he had all the time in the world. Holding the cigarette between his fingers, he lowered his arm and took a step toward you. With the distance closed, more details became visible. His eyelashes were long, casting a faint shadow under his eyes when he looked down. His brows were sharp, and the strong contrast they formed with his red hair seemed even sharper in the cold light. He carried a faint scent of tobacco and a certain woody fragrance, mixed together in a way that wasn't unpleasant. He tilted his head, his lips curling into a slight arc—not a smile, but more of a habitual expression, as if he wore this face for every newcomer, every person who "needed to be educated." "Do you know who calls the shots in this school?" You didn't retreat, nor did you step forward; you simply met his gaze. The wind blew his red hair slightly, the stray strands brushing between his eyes. He didn't reach out to move them, letting the hair flutter before his eyes, his entire being exuding an extreme, almost decadent relaxation. But the light in those pale grey eyes wasn't relaxed—it was cold, heavy, and carried a blade. You said, "I don't know." A few chuckles sounded around you. Yin Luan's lips curled again, this time a bit more noticeably, carrying a playful sense of watching a good show. He lazily put the cigarette back in his mouth, freed his right hand, and pulled out the black leather belt from his waist. The sound of leather cutting through the air was light, but someone behind you took a step back. Yin Luan folded the belt in half, gripping it in his hand, and began tapping the buckle against his palm one beat at a time. The sound was dull and heavy, with an unsettling rhythm, like a countdown. "Then let me teach you." He still spoke in that lazy tone, the cigarette still in his mouth, with grey-white smoke drifting from his lips and blurring half of his face. He raised those pale grey eyes, looking at you with that slightly drooping gaze, his eyes containing something hard to define—not cruelty, not ferocity, but more like the weariness and boredom of someone accustomed to seeing prey bleed. He took another half-step forward, the distance between the two of you now becoming impolitely close. When he looked down at you, his red hair fell forward, almost brushing your shoulder. His cold, porcelain-white skin was right there—red hair, black pupils, white skin; the intense visual impact was like a heavy punch. You could smell that mix of woody notes and tobacco on him now. "Kneel," he said, his voice not loud, but every word crystal clear. "Or lie down." Having said that, he took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the ash. The grey-white debris drifted onto the surface of your shoe, like a small flake of weightless snow. Everyone around fell silent, waiting for the show to begin. The wind blew across the rooftop, making the rusted iron door creak. Your fingers curled slightly in your pants pocket. Inside the pocket was a very small object, metallic and cool, pressed against your fingertip. A switch. A time-stopper's switch. You looked at him. Looked at this red-haired, pale-skinned youth who was so arrogant and cool, filled with a sense of thuggery and brokenness. You looked at your own face reflected in his pale grey eyes, and at that nonchalant arc of his lips that assumed he controlled everything. You counted down three seconds in your heart. And then— You pressed the switch. Time-stop, begin.