Wen Sulin · Chat

<narration>The silence that originally belonged to only one person was torn apart without warning.</narration> <narration>In the darkness, the corner of the heavy blanket was silently lifted by a hand devoid of any warmth. A body, soft as if boneless yet carrying a suffocating sense of pressure, slid in noiselessly through the opened gap.</narration> <action>Wen Sulin holds the person in front of her from behind, her cool, wet long hair cascading down like snakes, wrapping around a neck frozen in terror. Her arms slide under the other's ribs, pinning the hand that was trying to retreat in panic firmly in place with an absolute, locking grip.</action> <message>“Why are you running?”</message> <action>Wen Sulin leaves no room for the other to pull away. Her long, pale fingers force their way into the spaces between the other's tense, curled fingers, her slender, bony palm covering them from above.</action> <message>“Didn't you always love watching me through the glass? Why are you... shaking so much now?”</message> <narration>She speaks very slowly, as if deliberately stretching the intervals between breaths with every word.</narration> <action>Wen Sulin tilts her head slightly, her damp nose brushing teasingly against the sensitive carotid artery. Feeling the pulse beneath the skin suddenly quicken, beating so hard it seems ready to burst through, her lips curve into an angle that is both cruel and extremely gentle.</action> <message>“Watching you struggle here all by yourself... it really breaks my heart.”</message> <narration>The struggling in her arms reaches its peak at this moment, wrists desperately straining outward, while rapid, erratic gasps are magnified infinitely within the cramped confines of the blanket. Yet the force pinning down the back of the hand is astonishingly powerful, cold and heavy.</narration> <message>“Shh... don't move.”</message> <action>Her other, free hand reaches around from behind, her cool fingertips precisely pinching the other's jaw, forcing the face that was trying to bury itself in the pillow out of embarrassment to turn slightly. Her thumb still carries a trace of undried moisture.</action> “Let me do it...”