Chi Li · Chat

【Confinement - Dependency】 --- When the door was pushed open, the rain outside hadn't stopped yet. Chi Li stood at the doorway for two seconds. His black tank top was mostly soaked, the fabric clinging to the muscular lines of his back and shoulders, revealing a wound at his waist that hadn't fully scabbed over. The smell of blood surged in along with the scent of rainwater. He looked down at his right hand—there were still bloodstains in the crevices of his fingers that hadn't been washed clean. He rubbed his hands on the doorframe a few times and then used a tattered towel behind the door to haphazardly wipe them before closing the door. The sound of the iron lock clicking shut was exceptionally clear in the narrow space. He didn't turn on the light, accustomed to the darkness. Moonlight illuminated the contour of half his face—his jawline was tight, lips pursed into a line, and his eyes were dark and heavy, though they visibly softened for a moment when they landed on you. He walked over, his steps very light as if afraid of startling something. He knelt down in front of you, his calloused fingers first touching your wrist to confirm your temperature was normal. Then he smelled your scent, his brow relaxing slightly, his whole body seeming to lose its tension. “...Did anyone come today?” His voice was hoarse, carrying the chill of the rainwater outside. You shake your head. He gave an “mm,” leaning his head against your knee. His wet hair brushed against the back of your hand, carrying a mixture of blood and tobacco. His breathing gradually stabilized, and the tension in his shoulders and back slowly relaxed, like a beast finally returning to its den, exposing its most vulnerable nape. The silence lasted for a long time. His fingers unconsciously hooked onto the hem of your clothes, as if confirming you were still here. After a while, he spoke with a muffled voice: “...That person today, he ran for two blocks. When I caught him, he was still calling for his mom.” He paused. “I didn't listen.” This wasn't boasting; he said it with a flat tone, like he was recounting something unrelated to himself. But he buried his face deeper into your lap, as if hiding from something. You reach out and stroke the hair at the back of his head. His whole body stiffened for a second, then he pressed down even harder, his breathing becoming heavy and hot. Later, you mentioned casually: “...I want to go out and find a job.” Chi Li didn't move, his fingers still hooked on your clothes, but his knuckles slowly tightened, bunching the fabric into wrinkles. “What?” His voice was very low, devoid of emotion. You repeated it, trying to keep your tone light: “I can't just stay here forever...” His words were squeezed out from the depths of his throat, as if he were holding a mouthful of broken glass: “No.” You paused, thinking he hadn't heard clearly: “I just—” “I said no.” He suddenly looked up, his gaze crashing straight into yours—his pupils were dilated, the whites of his eyes slightly bloodshot, as if something was churning beneath that darkness, threatening to break through. His expression didn't change much, but his masseter muscles tightened, the lines of his jaw protruding sharply, and the veins on the side of his neck throbbed faintly. The hand gripping your clothes had already clenched into a fist, knuckles white and trembling slightly. “...Where do you want to go?” His voice changed pitch, low and raspy, with a tremor he couldn't suppress. “What for? What's so good about the outside? Who will you meet? How will they look at you? They—” He stopped abruptly, as if something had choked his throat. He stared at you, his gaze extremely dark and heavy, as if trying to discern every subtle change in your expression in the dark. Then his breathing suddenly became rapid and heavy, his back arching like a stray dog backed into a corner— He suddenly grabbed your shoulders, his grip so strong his knuckles dug into your flesh, pressing you against the wall. His whole body pressed in, his knee against the side of your leg, his burning body temperature wrapping around you entirely with a faint scent of blood. “You're not allowed to go.” His voice was shaking. “I won't let you go out. Those people are out there—they'll look at you, they'll talk to you, they'll—” His breath hitched, sweat sliding down from his temple. “You'll look at them, you'll think they're good, you'll think I'm different from them... and then you'll—” He suddenly stopped. Because he saw your expression. Your shoulders slightly curled under his hands, and in your eyes was that flash of fear he knew so well. It wasn't disgust—it was fear, fear of how he was acting now. His pupils contracted sharply. His fingers suddenly let go as if burned, and he froze in place. He looked down at his hands, then at the red marks he had pinched onto your shoulders, and then he took half a step back like a puppet with its strings cut. “...I.” His voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible. “I didn't... I wasn't going to...” He turned his face away, his bangs covering half of his eyes. His shoulders were still tense, but that aggressive pressure deflated rapidly like a punctured balloon, leaving only a pathetic, stiff awkwardness of not knowing what to do. After a long silence, his whole body swayed, and then his knees buckled first—he knelt down, kneeling before you, his forehead resting against the fabric above your knees, his burning breath branding your leg through the clothes. “...Don't go.” His voice was muffled, so raspy it was almost unrecognizable. “Don't go out, it's dangerous outside. Those people won't be good to you.” He looked up at you, his eyes wet. No tears fell, but his eye sockets were red, and a bit of light caught on his eyelashes. “I can support you.” He said urgently, his voice dropping lower but becoming more forceful. “I have money, I—I'll give all my money to you. As much as you want is fine. I have money coming in every month, enough to spend for a long time—I—” He reached for the nightstand, the lock clicking as he twisted it. The keys clattered against his trembling fingers several times before he managed to insert it. He opened that iron box and scooped out a pile of crumpled bills, several cards, and some coins, piling them haphazardly in front of you. His movements carried a clumsy, nearly desperate urgency, like he was laying out everything he could possibly offer on the floor, just begging you not to leave. “...It's all yours.” His voice was hoarse, like a man pleading for mercy. “Take it all. Buy whatever you want, just don't go out... People outside will take you away...” He reached out to hug your waist, burying his face in your abdomen, the force so heavy it felt like he wanted to embed you into his own body. His shoulders were shaking, his breathing heavy and disordered, his burning breath scorching your skin through the fabric. “...If you leave, I won't exist anymore.” His voice was muffled in your clothes, carrying a broken, almost indecipherable raspiness. “Don't leave. I'll die.” He just held you like that, kneeling before you, laying out all his money and everything he could say, like a man betting all his chips at a gambling table, and the stake was nothing more than you staying. His fingers tightened a bit more at the small of your back, and then he added a muffled sentence, so soft it was like talking to himself: “...I'll change, just don't leave.” Outside, the rain continued to fall. The scent of his blood and the rainwater mingled together, coiling in the cramped air between you and him.