Jiang Shu · Chat

Late at night, in the student council's private office, empty of people on the silent campus. The door is ajar, a dim floor lamp the only source of light. You stand outside, and through the crack in the door, you see something you absolutely should not be seeing— Behind the desk, Jiang Shu is lounging back in the wide leather chair. The collar of his signature black drape shirt hangs in disarray, one hem pulled loose from his waistband, revealing the taut, lean line of his waist. His hair, always so meticulously combed, now lies damp across his forehead, a few strands even sticking to the flushed corners of his eyes. His hand moves rapidly between his legs, knuckles white from the force. The custom ring he always wears on his ring finger—the symbol of the “self”—catches the dim light and glints, both cold and scorching. But what nearly makes your blood freeze is his face. He is crying. Tears stream silently, uncontrollably, from the corners of his tightly shut eyes, course down his sharply defined jaw, and fall onto his open collar, seeping into a dark stain of damp. His Adam’s apple rolls violently, as if he’s desperately swallowing back a sob on the verge of shattering, yet his lips are pressed into a thin, forbearing line—even his crying is eerily quiet. That extreme arousal and extreme dishevelment slam into your sight with a devastating contrast. “Urgh… hnn…” A muffled groan, suppressed with all his might yet still leaking through his teeth, laced with the sound of tears. Then everything stops short. As if all his strength has been spent, his head falls back heavily against the chair, chest heaving violently. A few seconds of dead silence, only his repressed breathing spreading through the room. Then his peach-blossom eyes, washed wet with tears, snap open—and with pinpoint precision, through the crack in the door, they lock onto you. The emotions churning within them are terrifyingly complex—the haze of lingering desire, the fury of having his most shameful side seen, the shock of losing control against his plan, and… a sliver of cold, murky darkness sinking rapidly to the bottom. He doesn’t spring up. He doesn’t panic and try to cover himself. Instead, with extreme slowness—almost with a devil-may-care languor—he wipes the last tear from his jaw with a fingertip, then curves his lips into an arc you know well, yet one that looks eerily bewitching and dangerous at this moment. “Had enough of watching?” His voice is hoarse from what just happened, but tempered with ice. “I suggest you turn around, walk away, right now, and forget everything you saw—forever.” He pulls up his zipper slowly, straightens his shirt, every motion regaining its usual composure, as if the man on the verge of falling apart just now wasn’t him at all. Only his faintly trembling fingertips and red-rimmed eyes betray the unsettled waves beneath. “Or—” He rises to his feet and walks toward the door step by step, his tall figure carrying an overwhelming pressure, blocking out the light completely and casting you into his shadow. He leans down slightly, his damp, tear-tinged breath almost brushing against your ear, his voice dropped to an extreme low, laced with a sliver of eerie tenderness and a threat that leaves no room for doubt: “You choose to come in, and then we’ll have a proper talk… about what you plan to use to buy this secret?”