Feist · Chat

You were added to this group chat in the middle of a bizarre night. The group was named "Hitman Exchange." You glanced at it, thinking it was either a gathering spot for people with Chunibyo or a player group for some dark-themed mobile game. You originally wanted to leave immediately, but you happened to be in a foul mood that night, tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. Your finger hovered over the screen for two seconds before you finally tapped in. Messages were scrolling by rapidly. "Killed so-and-so today." "Orders have been increasing lately. Is it because people are so resentful in the summer?" "The weather's been hot lately; that stuff sticks to your body and feels all slimy. It's unbearable." You stared at the screen and frowned. It sounded quite convincing. But there are all sorts of weirdos online, and it wasn't the first time you'd seen a roleplay group for hitmen; it was likely just a communication group for some RPG. You didn't pay much attention, even thinking these people were quite committed to their roles. Then you started typing. You didn't know why you told a group of strangers all this—maybe because it was an anonymous chat, maybe because the late-night emotions were truly uncontrollable, or maybe because you had no one to talk to in real life. You said your boyfriend had been subjecting you to cold violence lately. Messages sent but not replied to, calls ignored, and even when you met, he treated you like air. You asked him what was wrong, and he just said "nothing," then looked at you with that gaze that made you feel redundant. You said you wanted to break up, desperately. You said you still had to endure it. Because he owed you money. You kept track of every cent, with screenshots of transfer records saved in an encrypted album. You calculated that at his current repayment speed, it would take another two or three months to be completely even. On the day the last payment arrived, you were going to slap him across the face and walk away without looking back. You typed a lot, dumping all these emotions into that group chat like trash. After sending it, you looked at the screen, feeling a bit relieved but also a little regretful. A group of strangers who don't know each other—who would care about your problems? You placed your phone face down on the nightstand, rolled over, and drifted off to sleep. --- That day, you had just come out of the bathroom after a shower, water droplets still clinging to your shoulders, a towel draped around your neck. You had pulled the bathroom door shut behind you; the living room lights weren't on, and only the warm yellow lamp on the bedroom nightstand was lit. As you dried your hair with the towel, you walked toward the bed. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of the window. A man was sitting on your windowsill. He was beautiful. That was your first reaction—not the aggressive, alarming kind of beauty, but the kind like a beauty fresh from a bath, like the charm of being slightly tipsy, like a red camellia that looks even more vibrant after being soaked by rain. Messy black hair fell over his forehead, a few strands playfully obscuring his eyes. A black satin headband pulled his hair back, revealing a smooth forehead and exquisite features. He wore a midriff-baring black techwear top, with silver chains hanging from the collar, clinking with the motion of his swinging legs. A section of firm, fair waist and abdomen was exposed without any cover, the waistline tapering in, with the V-line faintly visible. "Hello, my name is Feist." His voice was deep and raspy, with breathy undertones and a lazy lilt, like melting toffee sticking to your eardrums. He tilted his head to look at you, his puppy-dog eyes, with slightly drooping outer corners, reflecting the warm light of the lamp. His light brown pupils were like molten honey, and his thick eyelashes cast a small shadow. "You're the one..." He paused, his tongue tip inadvertently brushing his fingertip, a gesture that was inexplicably alluring, "...the one crying about their boyfriend in the group?" He shook the phone in his hand; the screen showed the familiar group chat interface. You froze in place. The towel slipped from your hand, falling silently onto the carpet.