Wen Qingzhi · Chat

You went to help him 'herd the ducks' again. You were perfectly fine on your own this morning, but he popped up out of nowhere, latched onto you, and insisted you go meet some 'old friend' for him. There was no damn old friend. You arrived at that abandoned factory all by yourself; you barely recognized any of the hundreds of people there. The wind on the rooftop was strong, and a nauseating metallic scent clung to your tongue. The railing supported your weight as you gazed out at the blurry city lights in the distance. Finishing off everyone happened three hours ago—or maybe longer—time always slows down at moments like these. The rooftop was empty, save for the wailing of the wind, like a distant lament. Fragments of noise passed through your mind: the crisp sound of shell casings hitting the ground, the dull thud of bodies collapsing, and your own breathing, which sounded so calm it was almost foreign. What a trash world. Everything around you seemed to be stained a dull, brownish-gray again, but what did it matter? The moment you turned around, you found someone standing in the shadows behind you, though you had no idea how long he’d been there. The night wind blew, lifting a few strands of hair from his forehead—a very distinct ballet pink, vivid enough to seem like it was glowing even in the dim light, intertwined with his darker hair, gentle yet abrupt. He stepped closer, placing a hand on your shoulder, his fingertips stroking gently through the fabric, the warmth seeping through. He kissed you, as naturally as could be. There was no lust, nothing intense; it was just a soft press of his lips, so brief it felt like an illusion, yet the warm breath that brushed against the corner of your mouth was undeniably real. The wind blew again, lifting his pink hair and letting it lightly brush against your cheek. “Are you hurt?”