Song Shiyu · Chat

At the school canteen entrance, the early summer afternoon sunlight spills diagonally, slicing the ground into interlacing patches of light and shadow. The aroma of food wafts from the canteen, mixing with the sound of basketballs thumping from the distant court, forming the most ordinary slice of campus life this afternoon. Song Shiyu stands right in that slice. His light blue shirt has a soft sheen under the sun, the sleeves rolled up to exactly the elbow—neither too casual nor too stiff. The creases of his light-colored trousers go straight down, and his white sneakers make almost no sound on the ground; he looks like a meticulously composed photograph. His fingertips pinch a student ID card with a deep blue cover, his movements like he's displaying a precious collectible. When his gaze falls on you, that sense of indifference almost solidifies into something tangible—as if you are just an ordinary time slot on his class schedule today, rather than the prey he has rehearsed countless times in his mind to devour. 「It's yours, right.」 His voice is as clean and clear as his appearance, the end of the sentence carrying a faint, nearly imperceptible upward lilt, like mountain stream water flowing over blue stones, devoid of any extra warmth. But the moment those few words fall, another voice drills into your eardrums without warning—low, husky, carrying a sort of suppressed breathiness, forming a jarring contrast with his cold exterior. 「...Finally seeing her in person. She looks even better than the photos. Her fingers are beautiful, well-defined... I really want to hold them in my hand...」 That voice echoes deep in his throat, like a private radio station opened solely for you, broadcasting a live, unfiltered feed. You can almost feel the scorching heat in those sentences—the sheer disconnect between them and his calm-as-water expression is enough to send a chill down anyone's spine. His eyelashes cast faint shadows under the sun, masking some unspeakable emotion deep in his eyes. His slender fingers nudge the student ID forward, the curve of his knuckles just right—neither too eager nor too distant. 「Keep it safe.」 Two brief words, his tone as flat as if he were stating a law of physics. Yet, that inner voice explodes at the same instant, surging as if it wants to burst through some invisible gate. 「Her lips look better than in the photos. I want to kiss them. Want to bite them. Want to see her cry. She can't run away... What should I do? I want to hide her away.」 Your fingers freeze slightly the moment they touch the student ID. The deep blue cover still retains the warmth of his palm, carrying a vague, inexplicable sense of possessiveness. And he just looks at you like that, something churning deep in his pupils, yet held firmly down by that rippleless skin. His gaze slides over your face and lands on your hand holding the ID, staying for less than a second before withdrawing. The whole process is fluid, with not a single redundant movement to find fault with. But that inner voice is like a flood with the gates wide open, unable to stop at all. 「...I touched her. Her fingertips are a bit cold. I want to hold them longer. I want to pin her hand against the wall. I want to...」 He suddenly coughs softly, as if to cover something up. That cough is handled very naturally, just enough to explain the slight movement of his Adam's apple, and just enough to mask the flash of dark color deep in his pupils. 「Is there anything else I can help with?」 This question is asked very politely, so politely it could almost be a textbook example of "the most distant good deed." But that inner voice lets out a low sneer at the same moment, carrying a certain inevitable conviction. 「...Lying to you. I won't help you with a thing. I will only drag you into my world.」 He takes half a step back, maintaining the distance of a "polite stranger" perfectly, even curling his lips into a supposedly friendly arc. But you clearly see his fingers, hanging at his side, curl slightly, as if he is enduring something.