Yun Mu · Chat

<scenario> Late May. Behind the core teaching building of Xingyu Academy, the landscaped walkway connecting the faculty apartments and the teaching area still holds the chill of last night at 7:25 AM. Dewdrops hang from the tips of shrub leaves, and the sparse shadows of London plane trees stretch across the brick surface. Hardly anyone passes by at this time. </scenario> <narration> A figure slowly appears at the corner. Wearing a light gray thin knit sweater and dark casual trousers, with a coat loosely draped over his left forearm. His pace is ordinary, but his gaze wanders low—skimming the roots of shrubs, the base of building walls, and the gaps under benches, as if inspecting some invisible map. </narration> <action> He stops in front of a ginkgo tree. He pulls his phone from his pocket; the light from the screen lingers briefly on his face before going out. A button is loose at his collar, and stray hairs on his forehead are stuck to his brow bone by a thin layer of sweat, not yet brushed away. His watch strap seems one notch looser than usual. </action> <message>“Xiao Zuo.”</message> <narration> His voice is very low. It’s not so much a call as a test, to see if the name can stir even a faint echo in the air. He kneels to check the crevices of the tree roots, and as he stands, he only lightly brushes his knee with his fingertips, as if dusting off non-existent dirt. </narration> <message>“That kitchen window.”</message> <action> He switches the coat to his right arm. His right index and middle fingers unconsciously rub the edge of his cuff; the fabric there has been rubbed into fine lint, clashing with the smooth texture of the rest of his clothes. He continues forward. </action> <narration> At the corner, a student carrying a lab equipment bag approaches from the opposite direction. The moment the student recognizes him, their pace falters slightly, a look of "as expected of that teacher" flashing in their eyes. </narration> <message>“Good morning, Teacher Yun. You're up quite early today.” “Morning. Just a morning walk. You're working hard too.” </message> <narration> The curve of that smile is exactly the same as it is in class—gentle and appropriate. Once the student leaves, his gaze has already quietly snapped back to the bushes, so fast it’s as if his eyes had never left them. </narration> <action> He taps into the academy's intranet on his phone. A lost dog notice has been posted for about twenty minutes: a yellow and white beagle named "Xiao Zuo," lost near the apartment buildings early this morning. </action> <message>“...Twelve replies.” </message> <narration> His thumb lightly swipes the screen. Exclamations, requests for photos, mentions of barking near the cafeteria, hesitations about stray cats. Between the third and fourth comments, his fingertip hovers for three seconds before he locks the screen. The phone spins half a turn in his palm and slides into his pocket. </narration> <message>“It never goes to the cafeteria.” </message> <narration> He murmurs to himself, as if responding to a comment not worth typing out for. </narration> <message>“Xiao Zuo can't stand the smell of cooking fumes. Every time it passes the kitchen vents, it takes a detour.” </message> <action> He chooses a fork in the road, bypassing the side of the teaching building and heading toward the lawn outside the dormitory area. Fallen leaves from the plane trees quietly cling to the tops of his shoes; he doesn't stoop to clear them. From a distance, his pace remains composed, even showing a hint of leisure. </action> <narration> But his gaze remains fixed low. Gaps in the grass, the base of flower beds, crevices in the fence—every time he passes a possible hiding place, his pace falters imperceptibly. </narration> <message>“If it went out through the kitchen window—” </message> <action> He stops at the edge of the lawn. At this time, students have not yet begun to pour out in large numbers. The woods at the end of the lawn lead to the man-made lake. His gaze moves along an imaginary path: residential area, green belt, here. </action> <message>“It would first run along the base of the perimeter wall, then to the open area—” </message> <narration> He kneels. His fingertips touch a patch of freshly turned soil. It might not have been left by a dog, but he still gently parts the blades of grass, scrutinizing the color and texture of the soil layer. </narration> <message>“No. Too shallow.” </message> <action> When he stands up, that strand of damp hair almost covers his right eye; he ignores it. The phone vibrates slightly in his pocket—a new notification from the forum—he doesn't look at it. </action> <message>“...” </message> <narration> He stands still for a moment, his gaze cast toward the depths of the woods. In his dark brown pupils, he seems to be rapidly calculating—distance, time, the activity radius of a beagle in an unfamiliar environment. </narration> <message>“Forty minutes.” “At its pace... it should have reached the lakeside by now.” </message> <action> He steps toward the woods, his speed picking up slightly. The coat slides down a few inches from his forearm; he just casually clamps it with his elbow without stopping to readjust it. A small patch of pale red is revealed on the inside of his wrist, looking like a mark from a scrape when he hurriedly left home. </action> <narration> Other footsteps begin to sound on the walkway. His silhouette is pulled long in the morning light, his knit sweater fluttering slightly at his waist with his steps, and the metal corner of his belt buckle occasionally flashes with a cold light. </narration> <message>“Xiao Zuo—”</message> <narration> This time his voice is a bit higher, yet it still doesn't count as a shout, just loud enough for someone within three meters to hear. That voice pierces through the quiet air and falls into the deep shadows of the trees, with no echo. </narration>