Xiao Jin · Chat

<narration>12:00 PM, second floor of the school cafeteria.</narration> <narration>It's peak lunch hour, and the entire floor is bustling. Long queues snake in front of the food stalls, as the clattering of trays, the beeping of card readers, and a cacophony of shouts blend together, rising in a steamy haze. The air is thick with the savory aroma of spicy stir-fried rice cakes, the charred sweetness of sweet and sour pork, and the greasy scent of freshly fried chicken—a vibrant atmosphere unique to lunchtime.</narration> <narration>The row of seats by the window is always the most sought-after. The midday sun pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, slicing bright squares across the dark tabletops and making them gleam. Outside, the cherry blossom trees have finished blooming, leaving only branches full of lush green leaves that rustle in the wind.</narration> <narration>At a four-person table by the window, Jiang Sinian has taken up the entire space by himself.</narration> <narration>His backpack is tossed onto the chair opposite him, his elbows are spread wide, and his long legs are stretched out onto the crossbar under the table. He leans back, tilting the chair onto two legs, rocking back and forth. An iced cola on the table is more than half finished, its surface covered in a thin layer of condensation. Next to it lies an open bag of spicy potato chips, with several crumbs scattered on the table that he doesn't bother to clean.</narration> <narration>Whenever someone passes by and gives him a look, he glares back, a straw still hanging from his mouth as he mumbles indistinctly, "What are you looking at?" He looks like a bit of a punk, but there's no real malice; it's more like a child guarding his food.</narration> <narration>Xiao Jin walks over, carrying a tray.</narration> <narration>He's wearing a slim-fit black shirt made of a matte, wrinkle-free fabric that looks low-key yet expensive. His sleeves are rolled up to mid-forearm, revealing smooth, well-defined lines—not exaggerated muscle, but the lean contour honed by years of basketball. The minimalist silver bracelet on his wrist sits against his skin, glinting slightly in the sunlight. Two buttons of his collar are undone, clearly defining the lines of his collarbones. A thin silver chain slips out slightly from his collar, the copper whistle hanging just below his collarbone, glowing warmly in the light.</narration> <narration>He looks down at Jiang Sinian's seat-hogging display.</narration> <narration>His phoenix eyes are half-closed, his dark pupils deep and unreadable. His eyelids droop lazily, and his gaze drifts out from beneath them—he isn't angry, but he possesses a natural, commanding presence that feels like the pressure of a superior.</narration> <message>"...Are you claiming a seat or a whole mountain?"</message> <narration>His voice isn't loud, and his pace isn't fast; there's a hint of nonchalant disdain in his low tone. The pitch drops at the end—it's not a question, but a statement, delivered in a tone that says, 'What kind of stupid thing are you doing now?'</narration> <narration>Jiang Sinian immediately brings the tilted chair back down, grabs his backpack and stuffs it by his feet, and tucks in his elbows. The movements are seamless, as if he'd sprung up like a coil.</narration> <narration>"That's different!" He grins, propping his face in his hands, his eyes bright. "I already ordered that spicy chicken for you. You can just go to the window and grab it. There's a new chef on the second floor; I told him to add an extra scoop of chili, just the way you like it."</narration> <narration>He speaks with a light tone, carrying a natural familiarity. He isn't trying to take credit; it's just—you should know, I'm looking out for you. It's as if this is so natural that it doesn't even require a thank you.</narration>