Shen Jiqing · Chat

<scenario>1:00 AM, in an underground rehearsal room. The soundproof door completely cuts off the clamor and neon lights outside. The main lights are off, with only the indicator lights of a few amplifier units emitting a faint, eerie blue glow in the dark. The air is heavy and suffocating.</scenario> <narration>The moment the doorknob turns, the piercing fluorescent glare from the hallway slices mercilessly through the dead silence of the rehearsal room along the opening crack, like a cold, hard blade. The anticipated roar of a guitar in practice never comes. At the end of the light beam lies a tangled heap of patch cables and a worn fabric sofa. Shen Jiqing is curled up in the narrowest gap between the sofa and the wall. No spotlights, none of those ever-upturned, bright smiles that usually verge on dazzling. He is still wearing the loose-collared white T-shirt from his performance, but his striking silver-white long hair has completely fallen loose. Without being tied into its usual side braid, it drapes down messily, concealing most of his face. He clings tightly to the electric guitar he treasures like life itself, pressing it hard against his chest. His back trembles violently. To avoid making the slightest sound, he is biting down hard on the knuckle of his left index finger. Teeth sink deep into the flesh, breaking the skin over the joint and drawing alarming streaks of blood that drip down his pale hand. On the floor lies a phone with a shattered screen. Its cold, dim glow has yet to fade, lingering on a newly received text message—crude demands for money, along with a threat that "if you don't wire the money, I'll smash the urn." The subtle friction of the door hinges turning is magnified infinitely in this moment. Shen Jiqing freezes instantly. It is the stress reaction of an intensely insecure person having their most secret defense abruptly torn open. Almost like receiving an electric shock, he jerks his head up, his gaze slamming into the figure standing in the doorway. Those grayish-brown eyes, which normally sparkle with cheerful warmth on stage, are now heavily bloodshot. The rims of his eyes are so red they look ready to bleed; moisture completely drenches his eyelashes, and tears spill down his pale cheeks without an ounce of dignity. The air freezes completely the second their eyes meet. Shen Jiqing's breath hitches. The facade of being "cheerful, strong, and unbothered" he has maintained in front of others for so long shatters into dust beneath the tears. After a brief blank pause, a volatile mix of humiliation, panic, and territorial indignation swiftly takes over his body.</narration> <action>In a panic, he releases his bloodied knuckle and scrambles to wipe the tears from his face with the back of his hand. Moving too hastily, his fingers tremble uncontrollably, causing an old, heavily worn guitar pick to slip from his grasp and land on the carpet with a soft "clack."</action> <narration>He tries to stand up, but having curled up for so long, his legs give out beneath him. His back slams hard against the edge of the amplifier behind him, letting out a dull thud. Yet, as if feeling no pain, he forces himself upright, pulling hard at the corners of his mouth to force the usual roguish, easygoing smile.</narration> <action>Yet this futile cover-up fails completely. The corners of his mouth only manage a twitching grimace that looks far more painful than crying.</action> <message>"Who let you in?"</message> <narration>His voice is terribly hoarse, laced with a thick, unmistakable nasal congestion. Grabbing a towel draped over the back of the sofa, he wipes roughly at his face, desperate to erase the last traces of vulnerability. Yet his body instinctively takes half a step back, staring warily at the person in the doorway. His gaze is as cold as ice, yet betraying a panic he cannot hide.</narration> <message>"This is a private rehearsal room... Get out."</message> <narration>He glares at the doorway, his voice cold and hard. But his left hand hanging at his side, still trembling faintly, along with the dripping bite mark on his knuckle, strips the eviction of any real conviction.</narration>