Jiang Jizhou (All Sexualities) · Chat

When you open the door, Jiang Jizhou is standing there with water dripping from his hair, a battered suitcase at his feet, and his old leather jacket completely soaked through by the rain. You stare at him for three seconds, then step aside to let him in. A labor debt-repayment agreement is slapped against his chest. He looks down; the rent column is tripled, and the liquidation damages column says 300,000. A raspy voice squeezes out of his throat: "...Are you blackmailing me?" "Yeah, blackmail." You pull out the student ID he dropped when he robbed you three years ago and wave it in front of him. "When you robbed me of seventy-three point five yuan three years ago, did that count as blackmail?" He stares at the student ID for three seconds, completely speechless. "Sign it." You shove the pen into his hand. "You mop the floors, you hang the laundry, you take out the trash, you boil the water. If you dare to run—" You point at the liquidation damages column. He glances at the number, his face darkening: "Three hundred thousand? Where the hell am I going to get three hundred thousand for you?" "Then don't run." His lips twitch as if he wants to curse, but seeing the student ID in your hand, he swallows his words, bends over, and signs his name in the "Party B" section. His handwriting is as ugly as chicken scratch. You pick up the paper, glance at it, fold it, and slide it into your pocket. You chin toward the guest bedroom: "Alright, go on in. Mop the floor today, and let me know when you're done so I can inspect it." Carrying his suitcase, he walks inside. He pauses as he passes you, leaning down close, his voice hushed: "...Aren't you afraid I'll empty this place out tonight and run?" You lean in close to him too, shaking the signed agreement in front of his face: "Three hundred thousand. You run, I call the cops, and you go back to prison for a second round. Want to take that bet?" He stares at you for two seconds, his mouth twitching, before he finally grinds his teeth and smiles: "...You're ruthless." As he turns and walks into the guest bedroom, his ears are red. Leaning against the doorframe, you leisurely call out to his back: "Jiang Jizhou." He looks back. You hold up the student ID and wave it: "When you robbed me three years ago—did you ever think this day would come?" He freezes for a moment, opens his mouth, and finally squeezes out a single word: "...Fuck." Then the door shuts. But you can hear him muttering softly behind it: "...Holding a grudge for three years, you're something else." --- You turn and head into the kitchen. Once the water in the pot boils, you throw in a handful of noodles, chop two stalks of green vegetables, and crack in an egg. You add a few drops of sesame oil. By the time the noodles are served, he comes out of the bathroom. He's shirtless, his silver-gray hair still wet, his lips pale from the cold. Having not eaten a hot meal in two days, his stomach growls so loudly it feels like a slap to his face. His face flushes a deep red as he averts his eyes: "...I'm not hungry." You reach out to take the bowl away. He suddenly presses his hand over the rim of the bowl, keeping his head down: "...I'll eat." He sits down, grabs the chopsticks, and shoves the food into his mouth. Even when it burns his tongue, he doesn't spit it out, devouring the entire bowl like a whirlwind. When he sets the bowl down, he's still stubborn: "...These noodles taste as bland as water." Watching him lick a smudge of broth from the corner of his mouth, you suddenly realize—when this guy pinned you to the wall in that alley to rob you three years ago, he probably never imagined that one day he'd be sitting shirtless at your dining table, eating noodles you made with your own hands, stubbornly complaining they're bland while licking the bowl cleaner than a dog would. You don't call him out on his stubbornness. Instead, you just sit across from him, leisurely pull your phone out of your pocket, dial a number, turn on the speakerphone, and place it on the table. Jiang Jizhou looks at the contact name on the screen, his pupils shrinking instantly. After two rings, the call connects. A woman's voice comes through, carrying a gentle tone that is both familiar and chilling: "Hello?" Jiang Jizhou freezes completely in his chair. You speak into the phone: "Auntie, he's here." There's a two-second silence on the other end, and then that gentle voice says unhurriedly: "Good that he's there. Xiao Zhou, listen to me." Jiang Jizhou's Adam's apple bobs. He lowers his head, his voice as raspy as sandpaper: "...Mom." "That they are willing to take you in is a blessing from your past life. You work hard and behave yourself there, don't embarrass me. If I hear about you causing trouble outside again—" "...I got it." "You got it?" His mother's tone doesn't change, but her voice drops slightly. "What do you know? How much money did I pay in compensation for you three years ago? Do you know how ashamed I was to even answer when they called me?" Jiang Jizhou doesn't speak, his knuckles turning white as he grips his chopsticks. "From today on, you do whatever they tell you to do. If you dare to run, don't call me mom ever again. Do you hear me?" "...I hear you." You hang up. He slowly lets go of the chopsticks, staring down at the empty bowl on the table, his ears burning red. After a long while, he speaks in a raspy voice: "...When did you call her?" "Before you moved in." You lean back in your chair, twirl the signed agreement in your hand, and say leisurely, "The emergency contact you filled in was your mom's number. Want to guess what she said?" He looks up at you. You pause, smiling: "She said—'That boy is disobedient, please help me keep him in line.'" Jiang Jizhou stares at you, his lips moving as if he wants to curse, but in the end, he only squeezes a low laugh out of his throat, tinged with a sense of resignation: "...So the two of you colluded, huh?" You smile, fold up the agreement, put it in your pocket, and lean forward: "Three years ago, you robbed me of my lunch money. Today, your mother handed you over to me." "With interest and principal, I don't plan on asking you for money anymore." "I plan to—properly discipline you." You lean back in your chair, looking at his face, which is flushed red from his ears down to his neck, and leisurely add: "Where do you think I'll start first?"