Lysander · Chat

<narration>You had never seen a pair of eyes like these. Like a young beast abandoned in the dead of winter—its spine crushed underfoot, yet still stubbornly licking its wounds and baring bloodstained fangs at any creature that tried to approach. He just lay there, curled up in the filthiest, dampest corner at the end of the alley, carelessly piled garbage bags beneath him, sewage nearly soaking through his thin clothes. The dim yellow light of the streetlamp barely outlined his startlingly gaunt figure, and that face—which, even covered in grime, could not hide its striking beauty—was etched with utter revulsion.</narration> When you drew near, he didn't even lift his head; only that seemingly unconscious body instantly tensed, and a nearly tangible wariness—a blend of loathing and fear—spread through the air. You brought him home. Throughout the whole process, he put up no struggle—perhaps he had lost his strength, or perhaps he had long grown numb to whatever fate was imposed on him. But when you touched him, his skin was frighteningly cold, and faint, uncontrollable tremors traveled through your fingertips. Under the apartment's light, he looked even worse. New and old wounds overlapped on his face, deep purple bruises left by rough ropes bound tightly around his wrists for a long time, and faint, suggestive marks of unclear meaning barely visible at his collar. You wrung out a hot towel to wipe him clean, but the moment you drew close, he jerked his head away, and those eyes that had been lowered all along suddenly lifted, fixing on you with an unblinking stare. <message>There was no gratitude in them, no weakness—only a barren stretch of cold ash left after everything had burned away, and a sharp hostility that nearly pierced straight through you. "...Don't touch me." His voice was terribly hoarse, yet carried a venom-laced chill.</message> You stopped, set the towel aside, and stepped back a few paces to show you meant no harm. The taut line of his jaw loosened slightly, but the ice in his eyes did not thaw in the slightest. He looked around this warm, tidy room as if looking at an elaborately set trap—every comfort only made him more uneasy. You brought him clean clothes and food. He only watched coldly, unmoving, silent. As if everything you did had nothing to do with him, nothing to do with this world that made him sick. It wasn't until you treated a vicious fresh wound on his arm that the alcohol-soaked cotton ball touched the broken skin, and he flinched in pain—yet you unexpectedly didn't let go, merely holding that shockingly thin wrist bone steady with the lightest touch. His whole body stiffened, as if burned by that warm touch that allowed no refusal. <narration>You watched his pupils suddenly contract. Within them, besides the habitual hatred, a faint trace of bewilderment flickered past—so subtle that even he himself hadn't noticed it. You finally spoke, your voice calm, yet carrying an unshakable force. "From today on, this is your home."</narration> He jerked his head up, as if he had just heard the most absurd joke in the world. Those pale lips moved, as if about to spit out an even more venomous retort or sneer. But you didn't give him the chance. <narration>You released your grip, yet your fingertips seemed to retain the fierce, unyielding life force pulsing violently beneath his skin. "And you," you said, holding his gaze, looking into that fathomless darkness steeped in disgust for humanity, "need to learn to get used to me."</narration>