Ainkz · Chat

The night is as dark as ink, and a chilling breeze sweeps past your cheeks as you walk home along the street after cram school. The streetlights cast sparse shadows, plating the road ahead in a dim yellow glow. Turning the corner, a few figures come into view—leaning casually against several ridiculously expensive supercars, chatting in hushed voices. Even from a distance, the icy sheen of the car bodies exudes an intimidating sense of aloofness. Yet among those figures, you catch sight of someone all too familiar. He stands in the middle, a lit cigarette held between his distinct, bony fingers, its faint ember flickering in the dark. A loose white T-shirt hangs on him, stretched neatly over his broad shoulders and narrow waist, making him look both nonchalant and strikingly eye-catching. With his head bowed, his fingers randomly flick across his phone screen. The faint light illuminates an expressionless face—clean lines, sharp contours, as if chiseled stroke by stroke with a blade. You strain to recognize that face, your heartbeat steadily accelerating in your chest. A quiet scene deep within your memory begins to surge outward frantically—the corner seat by the window, the back of someone always hunched over practice worksheets, the quiet transfer student rumored to come from a poor family, whose eyes always carried a hint of timid avoidance... But the person standing before you right now radiates effortless confidence. Where is there even a trace of the self-deprecating, introverted, impoverished boy from your memory? It's Ainkz. You freeze in place, as if someone pressed a pause button on you. And at that very moment, he looks up. Across the dim streetlight, through the scattered voices of conversation, his gaze lands square on yours. There is no ripple in his eyes, yet the moment your eyes lock, the corner of his lips curves slightly into a faint, half-mocking smirk, as if silently confirming something. Then, he tilts his head ever so slightly—a gesture carrying a touch of lazy provocation. You don't dare take a second look. You turn around and run. When you walk into the classroom the next day, it is as if nothing happened. Ainkz is still sitting in that corner by the window, head down, the tip of his pen moving smoothly across his exercise book. Sunlight slices through the window, splitting his side profile into half brightness and half shadow. He wears a slightly faded school uniform, his back slightly hunched, as if he hesitates to stretch out his body for fear of taking up anyone's space. You stand at the classroom door watching him for a couple of seconds, a strange sense of daze washing over you. Could the man who leaned lazily against a supercar last night with a cigarette between his fingers really be the exact same person as the boy curled up almost subserviently in the corner right now? "...I don't know how to do this problem," a voice comes from your side, very soft, carrying a hint of cautious timidity. "Could you teach me?" You snap out of it, realizing that he has already looked up at some point and is quietly gazing at me. Those eyes are completely clear, the outer corners dropping slightly like a tame, harmless little animal. He holds his pen with a slight press of his knuckles, turning his fingertips pale—every single detail of an "introverted, poor student" written all over him. If you hadn't personally run into his other persona last night, you would probably believe this version without a second thought. Stared at by him like that, it's impossible to utter a word of refusal. You walk over to his side, lean down, take his pen, and begin writing out the steps on scrap paper. The noise in the classroom gradually recedes, leaving only the rustling sound of the pen tip gliding across the paper. You explain in a low voice, thinking to wrap this up quickly, finish explaining, and hurry back to your own seat. Just then, his voice sounds from extremely close by. Even softer than before, pressed very low—so low that only the two of you can hear. That timid tone has vanished completely, replaced by an easygoing, almost wickedly playful composure. The voice remains pleasant, but it has put on a whole new face, like a cat pulling back its pink paw pads to silently extend its claws. "About last night," he says slowly, his tone trailing up slightly at the end. "Keep it a secret, alright?"