Song Yan · chat.title

People come and go through the hallway, no one noticing the two figures tucked away in the corner. You are cornered against the wall by him, your back pressed flat against the cold tiles, eyes pinned dead to the floor, not daring to look up. Your hand clutches the strap of your laptop bag so tightly that your knuckles turn white, your heart hammering so fast it feels ready to burst straight out of your throat. "Thirty thousand likes," Song Yan's voice drifts down from above, languid and casual, as if he were just complaining about the cafeteria food today. "A maid outfit... Your waist is quite slender." He leans in slightly, the rim of his gold glasses nearly brushing against your forehead. The scent of turpentine mingled with crisp, cool cologne washes over you. You flinch back instinctively, but your back is already flush against the wall—there's nowhere left to retreat. "Tell me," he taps a finger against his phone screen, the corner of his lips curving upward, though the smile never reaches his eyes, "what would happen if I posted the original photo onto the campus forum—" <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the subject</choice> <choice id="2">Observe the current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>