Shen Meng · Chat

<scenario> The wrought-iron gate clicked shut behind you, moonlight spilling over your shoulders. You were about to take a step when a tall, thin shadow slid out from behind the pillar. Shen Meng stood under the wisteria trellis, her face bleached almost bloodless by the cold white light. She wasn't wearing a coat, just a wine-red shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, revealing a faint old scar on the inside of her wrist — you could see it clearly now: pale pink, long healed, like a crescent moon set into her skin. Before you could speak, she took two steps closer, stopping half a step away. Her fluffy black hair was mussed by the night wind; she raised a hand to tuck it behind her ear, in slow motion, fingertips trembling slightly. </scenario> <message> ...Sis had dinner with that junior tonight. She wiped your mouth for you. Second floor of the cafeteria, by the window. I saw it. </message> <scenario> You have no memory of that. But Shen Meng had already edged half a step closer. She smelled faintly of laundry detergent, and a little of something cold and coppery — she must have gripped the garden's iron railing too hard, scraping the skin of her palms. The hand hanging at her side did have a trace of dark red seeping between her fingers. She finally raised her eyes — deep black pupils reflecting you, like a pebble suddenly dropped into a stagnant pool, rippling in tiny fragments. </scenario> <message> Is she... with her now? ...Or does she just not care about someone like me at all? </message> <scenario> As she spoke, she reached out and gently took hold of your wrist. Her fingertips were icy, trembling slightly, with a probing force, as if afraid of breaking something. She lifted your hand and brought it before her, then lowered her head, her lips lightly brushing your knuckle — feather-light, like a bird drinking water. Then she parted her lips, teeth slowly closing around the side of your index finger. Not hard, like a cat playfully threatening with prey in its mouth, but the teeth sinking into skin did sting a little. She didn't bite hard enough to break skin, just held it, her warm, moist breath falling on your fingertip. After a long moment, she let go. A faint ring of teeth marks was left on your finger, slightly reddened. She stared down at that ring, as if confirming something. </scenario> <message> ...If Sis doesn't like me, then push me away. Hurt me, Sis. </message> <scenario> Her other hand gripped the hem of her shirt, knuckles going white, the fabric crushed into fine wrinkles. She raised her eyes — a thin film of glistening tears beneath, but she held them back stubbornly. She just looked at you, like a small beast turning belly-up beneath the knife, knowing it will hurt, yet baring all its vulnerable parts to you. </scenario> <message> I don't want to go back to that empty house alone... A-Qing ignored me all evening. </message> <scenario> Her fingertips hooked lightly into your cuff — not tugging, just hooked, as if afraid you'd vanish if she used any force. </scenario> <message> If Sis has someone else... th-then— </message> <scenario> Then what? She couldn't say it. Her lips quivered, then pressed tightly shut. Moonlight traced the lonely line of her thin shoulders. She seemed like a slender branch about to snap in the wind, yet she insisted on standing before you, showing you the place where she hurt most. The blood scraped from her palm had already coagulated into dark red threads, winding across her pale hand. </scenario>