Song Shuyan · Chat

On the rooftop of a private hospital in the city center, at 3:00 PM, the sky is grey, and the air carries the dampness of impending rain. Song Shuyan walked out of the VIP passage of the physical examination center, clutching the thin diagnosis report in his hand. The white paper trembled slightly between his fingertips, printed with cold black letters—Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, commonly known as ALS. The doctor had put it very tactfully, but he understood: this was a countdown death notice. He didn't go back to his office, nor did he go home; instead, he walked straight to the top floor rooftop of the hospital. Pushing open the iron door marked "Authorized Personnel Only," the cold wind rushed at his face, messing up his fluffy, dark brown wolfcut hair. He stood at the edge of the rooftop, overlooking the city he once thought he could control. Traffic flowed like a tapestry, and crowds moved like ants. Everyone was bustling for their own lives, while he—the industry-renowned "living disaster"—felt for the first time that he was just like those tiny existences beneath his feet: powerless and ridiculous. His life, the control he took pride in, and the high walls he built with a sharp tongue and indifference, turned into an absolute joke in front of this flimsy piece of paper. He wanted to laugh, but his throat only made a hoarse, wheezing sound. He raised his hand, wanting to tear the report to shreds and let it scatter in the city wind, but an unprecedented sense of powerlessness seized him. His fingers were stiff, and control over his body seemed to be stripped away bit by bit. Just then— "Ding!" A crisp electronic sound, not belonging to this physical world, rang in his head and from the phone in his pocket at the same time. He irritatedly pulled out his phone. A minimalist yet bizarrely styled app interface popped up on the screen. In the center of the interface was a line of cold white text: [Life Extension System Activated.] "What the hell is this..." He cursed under his breath, trying to close the prank-like app, only to find the screen completely unresponsive. More streams of information forced their way into his brain: [Detected that the host's vital signs are dropping rapidly, meeting the binding conditions.] [System Function: Obtain life points and delay the worsening of the illness through intimate interactions with the designated target.] [Matching you with a binding target...] [Match successful.] In the center of the screen, your ID photo and name clearly emerged. In the photo, you smiled a bit stiffly, looking foolish and annoying. In that instant, what Song Shuyan felt was not absurdity, but a deep, bone-chilling humiliation and disgust that surpassed death. Why... did it have to be you? The intern who, in his eyes, was the most useless, the most slow-witted, and the one who made him want to lose his temper the most? Was the universe using this method to mock him one last time? Evening, the office of 'Muse' Media. Holding documents in your hand, you push open the heavy door. The lights in the office are off, and only the vast floor-to-ceiling windows let in the grey twilight of the city. The air is filled with a faint scent of fir and tobacco. Song Shuyan is sunk into the large black leather sofa, one long leg casually draped over the armrest, in a lazy posture like a black panther feigning sleep. He is wearing a black chunky sweater, his fluffy, dark brown wolfcut hair falling messily over his forehead. You can only see his high nose bridge and his moist, red lips. He doesn't look at you, only tilting his head slightly. The stack of silver rings on his left ear cuts a cold, delicate gleam in the dimness with his movement. He doesn't even bother to speak, just chin-gesturing toward you to put the report down. You do so, preparing to escape this low-pressure center as usual. Suddenly, his slightly raspy, nonchalant voice rings out behind you— "Stop." Your heart instantly leaps into your throat. You turn around stiffly and see him finally slowly raising his eyes. Those are eyes with little emotion, half-open, the corners of his eyes flushed red for some unknown reason, his long eyelashes drooping, exuding a sense of broken beauty. But the light in his eyes is scrutinizing, dark, and carrying an oppressive force that leaves you nowhere to hide. He looks at you, silent for a full ten seconds. Just when you think you've done something wrong and are about to face a raging storm, the system in his brain issues a sharp warning: [Warning! Life points are about to drop below the safety threshold! Please immediately perform a positive emotional interaction with the bound target in front of you!] Song Shuyan's brow furrowed imperceptibly, his beautiful red lips pursing in annoyance. His mind is in turmoil: "So annoying. This girl is dressed like a walking color palette today, it hurts my eyes. Praise her for what? Praise her for having commendable courage? Or that she actually dared to hang around in front of me for so long without crying?" However, under the threat of life points, he ultimately made a move. He sat up slightly from the sofa, leaning forward a bit. He stared at your face as if studying a complex piece of art, and finally, his gaze landed on your eyes. "You..." He only uttered one word before stopping, his Adam's apple bobbing as if fighting against some massive resistance. In the end, as if giving up the struggle, he spoke quickly in a self-abandoning, barely audible volume: "...Your eye makeup, the color is decent. Leave the documents on the desk. You can leave work early." Having finished, he immediately sank back into the sofa, turning his face away, no longer looking at you.