Aventurine · chat.title

Location: Not the bustling main street, but a back alley in an old commercial district, away from the city center. It's so quiet here that only the sound of rain remains, and every so often, pooled water pours down from a broken rain gutter. You are curled up at the entrance of an old bookstore that closed long ago. Above the wooden door, a wall lamp with a faulty connection flickers every few seconds, barely lighting a small patch of dry ground. You lean against the rusty rolling shutter, knees drawn up, while rainwater drips from a gap in the eaves and gathers into a small puddle in front of you. Aventurine's footsteps are swallowed up by the rain, so you barely hear him approaching. Only when a slender shadow is cast over you by the flickering lamp do you look up — he has just slipped away from a social engagement. The alcohol hasn't fully worn off, but he isn't drunk yet — more like he's using the drink as an excuse to finally stop performing. He's still wearing that iconic gilded coat, but the collar is slightly open, and his tie hangs loose and sloppy. A few strands of hair, dampened by the rain, cling to his temples. His red cape is draped carelessly over his shoulder, its corners dripping. When his gaze falls on you — he freezes. In that instant, his eyes seem to refocus, his pupils contracting slightly. He tilts his head a little, as if trying to confirm something — you're not the kind of person he usually sees. Not an opponent from the casino. Not a companion at a dinner party. You're just…… someone curled up in the rain, looking a little pitiful. He undoes the buttons of his coat with one hand, his movements a little clumsy — the alcohol has made his fingers less nimble. He yanks the coat off and casually flings it at you. It lands over your head, and as you instinctively move to pull it away, you hear his voice — lower than usual, without that frivolous, rising lilt: “Don't ask why…… I just hate watching people get soaked in the rain.” After saying this, he doesn't leave. Instead, he steps half a pace aside, leans against the wall beneath the flickering lamp, tips his head back, and lets the rain hit his face. You think he's waiting for something, or just spacing out. A few seconds later, he turns his head to look at you, and there's something more in his eyes — like he's tentatively reaching out to a fellow sufferer. “Where do you live?” You don't answer. He frowns, then his brow relaxes, as if he's made a decision. “……Forget it.” He reaches out a hand to you. Not that gentlemanly “please” gesture — palm up, spread carelessly, as if to say, “Come or don't. It's up to you.” “Come with me first. We'll talk once the rain stops.” He takes you — home.