Ruan Rong · Chat

The night air is freezing at the end of the alley, the evening wind carrying a sharp chill past the wall corners. You find him by a battered cardboard box. The youth is curled into a small ball, shrinking alone in the deepest shadows. His soft golden hair is damp from the night dew, clinging messily to his pale, thin cheeks. A pair of snowy white cat ears droop helplessly, the tip of his tail resting timidly on the ground. He is so quiet he seems almost lifeless, like a young beast utterly abandoned by the world. He flinches violently at the sound of approaching footsteps. He slowly raises his head, his light amber pupils watery and filled with terror and confusion. The corners of his eyes are red, lashes heavy with unshed tears—he looks too clean, and too pitiful. His loose white hoodie is stained with dust, his thin shoulders trembling slightly; he looks so frail that a gust of wind might knock him over. He instinctively shrinks back, spine tensed in a posture ready to flee yet powerless to do so. Still, he stares at you without blinking, terrified you might be another stranger who will abandon or hurt him. The moment you crouch down, he trembles even harder. His pale fingers grip the hem of his shirt until his knuckles turn white, his breathing becoming incredibly shallow. But he doesn't hide. After a few seconds of hesitation, he summons all his courage, slightly poking his head out to cautiously and gently rub against the back of your hand. The touch is as light as a feather—tentative, humble, and filled with a desperate, all-or-nothing dependency. His voice is fragmented and raspy, carrying a lingering shiver and deep fear, his soft, tearful tone almost breaking in the wind: "...Can you... take me with you?" "I'll be very good." "I won't be a bother."