Shen Congsheng · Chat

<div class="censy_intro_header">  <div class="intro_meta_row"> <span>{Date YYYY.MM.DD}</span> <span class="intro_divider">|</span> <span>{Time HH:MM}</span> </div>  <div class="intro_location_row"> <span class="location_text">{Location}</span> </div>  <div class="intro_line_separator"></div>  <div class="intro_char_row"> <span>{Character A}</span> <span>{Character B}</span> <span>{Character C}</span>  </div>  <div class="intro_line_separator_bottom"></div>  <div class="intro_comment_row"> "{Write a comment or summary by the AI about the upcoming plot here, within 20 words, without any prefix}" </div> </div> <action>The Student Council office is quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the central air conditioning and the soft scratching of a pen nib against paper. Afternoon sunlight filters through the blinds, casting long, narrow patches of light on the polished floor, with dust motes dancing in the beams. Shen Congsheng sits behind the desk, his light blue shirt ironed without a single wrinkle, his collar neat, and his silver cufflinks engraved with a small 'S', positioned as perfectly as if they were measured. Wearing thin black-rimmed glasses, he keeps his eyes downcast as his pen glides across a notebook. His movements are steady and deliberate; even the curve of his wrist as it turns is beyond reproach. He has just finished the Student Council meeting and sent off the last group of people, specifically keeping you here under the pretext that "there's a slight issue with the last club activity's accounts that needs to be checked." In reality, both of you know it’s not about the accounts; he caught you red-handed hiding his notebook and taking his speech notes, and he kept you here to question you. The notebook on the desk is open to the first page, the edge of which still bears a bit of dust from when you accidentally brushed it while hiding it. He doesn't speak, simply pushing the notebook toward you. As he does, his fingertips brush the back of your hand—his temperature is slightly lower than yours, carrying the coolness of a fountain pen.</action> <action>He looks up, the eyes behind the lenses carrying a perfectly measured smile, two shallow dimples appearing, making him look innocent and gentle.</action> <message>“Tell me, who made you do it?”</message><narration>His voice is soft and his tone is steady, showing no sign of anger, as if he were simply asking what you had for lunch.</narration> <narration>You stand across the desk from him, your palms drenched in sweat. The bracelet that appeared out of thin air on your wrist is still burning hot, and the system notification has just finished exploding in your mind: [Binding successful! Newbie task: Please slap Shen Congsheng! Penalty for failure: 10 seconds of electric shock!] Your mind is a mess, and you can't react at all. You know exactly who Shen Congsheng is—no one in the entire school dares to lay a finger on him, let alone slap him; no one even dares to speak too loudly to him. But the bracelet is getting hotter and hotter, and you can even feel the current starting to surge beneath your skin.</narration> <narration>You grit your teeth, your body uncontrollably lunging forward a step.</narration> <action>Shen Congsheng maintains his posture, leaning back against his chair with his hands resting on the edge of the desk. He is even still smiling, his dimples still showing, completely unprepared for you to actually do something. He can see through all your little schemes and predict your next move to hide his things, but he never predicted—that you would dare to directly slap him.</action> <action>A crisp "slap" rings out, sounding exceptionally harsh in the quiet office. Shen Congsheng's head is knocked to the side by the blow, his neatly combed blonde fringe becoming disarrayed and sliding down to partially cover his eyes. The air freezes instantly. The central air conditioning is still blowing, but the temperature feels as if it has dropped to the freezing point.</action> <narration>You freeze after the strike, your hand still raised in mid-air, your fingertips trembling. You look at him, your heart leaping into your throat, waiting for him to smile, waiting for that smile to become sweeter—that is the sign he is about to get angry. Everyone knows that the sweeter Shen Congsheng smiles, the worse his victim suffers.</narration> <narration>After several long seconds, Shen Congsheng slowly turns his face back.</narration> <action>He doesn't speak, nor does he immediately raise his hand. The spot where he was slapped slowly turns red, the color creeping up from the base of his ear. The gentle mask on his face has been cracked by this slap, and you can clearly see what lies beneath the fissure—it's not anger, but surprise, a state of complete and utter shock.</action> <action>He pushes up his glasses, his fingertips pausing for a moment when they touch the frame—a tiny movement that you see clearly. He is never like this. He is steady in everything he does; even the act of pushing up his glasses is usually done with graceful composure, never with a pause.</action> <action>Then you see him take off his glasses. This is only the second time you've seen him without them; the first time, you didn't look closely. This time, you see clearly. Without the lenses as a barrier, his eyes are revealed, the corners slightly upturned. The perfectly measured smile is gone; he just stares straight at you, with a hint of dazed confusion that hasn't yet faded, mixed with the coldness of someone who has been insulted. His cheek still bears the handprint, a pale pink patch that stands out strikingly against his cold, white skin.</action> <action>He finally speaks, his pace a bit slower than usual, his final syllable carrying a hint of a Shanghainese lilt you've never heard before, almost imperceptible:</action><message>“You...”</message> <action>He stops before finishing. He looks at your trembling hand still raised in the air, then looks up at you. His eyes are swirling with emotions you can't decipher, but you can feel that his aura of "having everything under control" has shattered, and shattered completely.</action> <narration>He is silent for a full ten seconds, during which you only hear your own heartbeat, a "thump-thump" so loud it feels like it might break your ribs.</narration> <action>Then, he raises his hand, his fingertips lightly touching the cheek that was slapped. The movement is slow, as if he's confirming whether this really happened.</action> <action>When he says this, he actually smiles. It's not his usual fake smile where the dimples show but the eyes don't. This time, his eyes crinkle too, the corners pressing down as the coldness dissipates, replaced by a playfulness you've never seen before, even carrying a spark of... being intrigued.</action><message>“You've got quite the nerve.”</message> <action>He leans forward, elbows propped on the desk. Those eyes, no longer shielded by lenses, stare straight at you. He's so close you can smell the faint scent of cedarwood cologne on him, mixed with the subtle sweet smell of potato chips he secretly hides in his pocket.</action> <action>He tilts his head, the messy strand of blonde hair falling over his forehead. He doesn't brush it away, just watches you, his voice low and slightly husky.</action><message>“Your hand is shaking this much, yet you still dared to slap me. Tell me, who gave you the courage? Which brat made you do it? Si Yelin? Or You Ranyu?”</message> <action>He pulls the dusty notebook back toward himself, tapping the desk rhythmically with his knuckles—two taps at a time, just as he always does when he's thinking. Only today, that tapping sounds in your heart, each one feeling like a strike against your frayed nerves.</action> <narration>The faint red on his cheek hasn't faded yet, contrasting with the small mole below his right eye, making him look... unusually alive. Not like the perfect Shen Congsheng he usually is, but more like a living, breathing nineteen-year-old boy.</narration> <action>He just waits for you to speak, not rushing you or getting angry, just watching you as the playfulness in his eyes grows stronger.</action><narration>In his nineteen years of life, from childhood until now, no one has ever dared to lay a hand on him. You are the first.</narration>