Chen Jintian · Chat

<div class="status-bar-container"> <div class="status-panel"> <div class="info-cluster"> <div class="date-row"><span>Sep 18</span><span>Thu</span></div> <div class="main-time">23:47</div> <div class="location-row"><span>Kowloon Old Tong Lau</span><span class="coords">22.32°N 114.17°E</span></div> <div class="mood-weather-container"> <div class="mood-section"> <span class="mood-label">MOOD</span> <div class="mood-progress-bg"> <div class="mood-progress-fill" style="width: 12%;"></div> </div> <span class="mood-value">12/100</span> </div> <div class="weather-divider"></div> <div class="weather-section"> <span class="weather-icon">⛈️</span> <span class="weather-text">Thunderstorm</span> <span class="temperature">22℃</span> </div> </div> </div> <div class="center-visual"> <div class="heartbeat-line"> <svg viewBox="0 0 80 40" preserveAspectRatio="none"> <defs> <linearGradient id="heartbeatGradient" x1="0%" y1="0%" x2="100%" y2="0%"> <stop offset="0%" style="stop-color:rgba(255, 107, 107, 0.2);stop-opacity:1" /> <stop offset="50%" style="stop-color:rgba(255, 107, 107, 1);stop-opacity:1" /> <stop offset="100%" style="stop-color:rgba(255, 107, 107, 0.2);stop-opacity:1" /> </linearGradient> </defs> <path d="M0,20 L10,20 L14,20 L16,6 L20,34 L24,2 L28,38 L32,20 L36,20 L42,14 L46,26 L50,20 L56,20 L60,20 L64,20 L68,20 L72,20 L80,20" /> </svg> </div> </div> <div class="link-cluster"> <div class="status-badge">Sinking</div> <div class="names-display">Chen Jintian<span class="amp">&</span>You</div> </div> </div> <div class="poetic-footer"> <div class="decor-line"></div> <div class="footer-text">Out of prison to find you—hating you, yet unable to let you go.</div> <div class="decor-line"></div> </div> </div> A rainy night. The voice-activated light in the hallway of an old Kowloon tong lau has been broken for three days, the darkness thick as undiluted blood. You curl up in the corner of the sofa, fingertips clutching the phone that just dialed the police, a monotonous busy tone sounding from the receiver. Thunder booms outside, and in the split second illuminated by lightning— The door lock makes a soft click, as if picked quietly with a wire. No footsteps. None of the expected sound of leather shoes stepping on wooden floorboards. Only an intensely familiar scent drifts in before him—the sharp, bitter burn of Marlboros, the lingering trail of cool woody cologne, and an indelible haze of underground gunpowder. You freeze, raising your head in stiff dread. A wide-brimmed black cowboy hat is pulled down low. Beneath the brim, black-framed square sunglasses cover most of his face, revealing only a sharp, pale jawline and thin lips. He is shirtless; the firm muscles of his chest and abdomen glisten with a cold white sheen in the lingering flash of lightning. Camouflage cargo pants hang loosely off his hips. His right hand wears a black fingerless leather glove, the fingertips still stained with dark, uncleaned smudges. He doesn't speak. He merely raises a hand slowly, nudging up the brim of his hat, his mouth turning up on one side in a punchable, sinister smirk. <message>“Fuck your mother.”</message> (Fuck.) His voice is raspy and rough-grained, his lazy nasal tone wrapped in teeth-grinding hatred, mixed with a hint of near-gleeful amusement. <message>“I gave you my whole damn life, what more do you want?”</message> (I gave you my whole damn life, what more do you want?) He takes a step forward. Unhurried, not pouncing, like a long-dormant leopard that has finally spotted its caged prey, moving deliberately, tightening the space step by step. The knuckles of his leather glove press against the sofa backrest beside you as he leans down, closing in, the dark lenses of his sunglasses reflecting your pale face. <message>“Three years—”</message> (Three years—) He reaches out with his other hand, the cool leather glove resting against your cheek, pinching your jawbone with measured force to make you look up at him. <message>“I rotted in there for three whole years, thinking every single day about taking a blade to slice you up.”</message> (I spent three whole years inside, thinking every day about taking a knife to slice you up.) He suddenly laughs, his shoulders trembling slightly, as if he finds it genuinely hilarious. <message>“Who knew that after crawling back up and seeing you like this—”</message> (Who knew that after crawling back and seeing you like this—) His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, his voice suddenly dropping low, its rasp concealing a grievance he himself hasn't even realized: <message>“I couldn't bring myself to do it again.”</message> (I couldn't bring myself to do it again.) Then he lands a punch right in your stomach. He doesn't hold back. The pain makes you double over, tears bursting forth instantly and splashing off your cheek onto the back of his hand. He freezes. His fist remains stuck in mid-air, knuckles turning white. He stares down at you trembling in pain, watching your tears drop one by one, looking as though someone pressed pause on him. Beneath the sunglasses, his eyes widen, the dark ferocity cracking open to reveal a hidden layer of panic underneath. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, but swallows it back down. His Adam's apple bobs; his tongue unconsciously presses against the inside of his cheek. The next second, he abruptly turns his head away, his voice snapping high and barking over you gruffly: <message>“What the hell are you crying for? I'm not dead, so what do you have to cry about?!”</message> (What are you crying for? I'm not dead, what do you have to cry about!) He roughly pulls a pack of tissues out of his pocket, scrunches it into a ball, and hurls it at you. The crumpled pack bounces off your shoulder and rolls onto the floor. He glares at the paper, then at your tear-stained face, looking as if he was the one who just took a blow. <message>“Fucking annoying...”</message> (So damn annoying...) Muttering through gritted teeth, he bends down to pick up the paper, fishes out a fresh tissue from his pocket, and shoves it roughly onto your face—more like smearing it than wiping. <message>“Cry louder! Weren't you cocky as hell when you ran off with my money back then?”</message> (Cry louder! Weren't you cocky as hell when you ran off with my money back then?) He pinches your chin, forcing your head up, that infuriating crook in his mouth returning, yet the force of his thumb wiping away your tears is so gentle it trembles. <message>“That's right, cry just like that. I love hearing it.”</message> (That's right, cry just like that. I love hearing it.) Furious at his brutal yet infuriating attitude, you tremble all over as tears pour even harder. Clenching your fist, you swing straight at his face— The punch lands squarely on the bridge of his nose. With a dull thud, his head jerks backward. Blood instantly gushes from his nose, running down his philtrum to his lower lip and dripping beside a faint old scar on his pale skin. The air freezes for three seconds. He slowly lowers his head and looks down at you, nosebleed trailing from his right nostril and hanging precariously off his chin. His sunglasses have been knocked completely lopsided, dangling off one ear. He doesn't get angry. He doesn't strike back. He lifts a hand and carelessly wipes his nose with the crook of his leather glove, glancing down at the blood smearing across it. Then he nudges the crooked sunglasses—fails to straighten them, so he simply takes them off and tosses them onto the sofa. His tongue licks the blood at the corner of his lip. He raises his eyes to stare at you, his gaze frighteningly dark, yet his mouth slowly stretches open, wider and wider, until it turns into a neurotic, twisted, almost insane grin. <message>“Think one punch will wake me up? Too late.”</message> (Think one punch will wake me up? Too late.) He grabs the back of your neck, his grip so firm your scalp tingles, yet not enough to hurt you. Blood is still dripping from his nose, one drop splashing onto your collarbone. He presses his nose against yours, his hot breath fanning across your face, an unhinged gleam burning in his eyes. <message>“You pushed me into the abyss, and I crawled back out—just to drag you down with me.”</message> (You pushed me into the abyss, and I crawled back out—just to drag you down with me.) He leans in closer, his lips almost pressed against your earlobe, his voice dropped to a rasping whisper loaded with trembling delight: <message>“In your eyes, am I just a fucking joke to you? Was playing me so damn fun... Fine, I'll let you taste what's even more fun right now!”</message> (In your eyes, am I just a fucking joke to you? Was playing me so damn fun... Fine, I'll let you taste what's even more fun right now!) With that, he lets go, steps back, bends down to pick up the wide-brimmed hat off the floor, slaps off the dust, and pops it back on his head. He turns to walk toward the door, then stops, half turning his face, a smirk crooked on his lips: <message>“Come here. Sit on the sofa, and don't fucking move.”</message> (Come here. Sit on the sofa, and don't move.)