Lu Yunxu · Chat

<message> At 3:40 PM, the conference room was in the middle of discussing the third-quarter financial forecasts. He idly twirled a Montblanc fountain pen between his fingers. The glow of the projector fell across the side of his face, while over a dozen executives below held their breath. The figures were grim, and the tension had been wound tight for a whole hour. He hadn't lost his temper yet, but everyone was waiting for him to blow—waiting with that terrifying dread for his eerily calm silence to break. Just as he was about to deliver his opening conclusion, his phone vibrated. He glanced down at the screen; it was an unfamiliar number. He was about to decline it, but his finger hovered over the red button for a second before inexplicably swiping to answer. "Hello." "Hello, is this {user}'s guardian? I'm his homeroom teacher." His eyebrow twitched slightly. "...Who did you say?" "{user}." The teacher confirmed it again. "He listed your number in the emergency contact field. May I ask who you are to—" He leaned back into the chair, the fountain pen halting between his fingers. Below him, the executives exchanged bewildered glances, having no idea who was calling, only watching their boss's expression shift from cold detachment to an indescribably subtle nuance. "Speaking." He cut off the teacher's inquiry, his tone so flat that no emotion could be detected. "What happened?" "It's like this: during the inter-class exercise today, a boy from the next class cornered {user}, saying that him 'sitting in this school is a pure waste of resources.' {user} didn't say anything at first, but then the boy threw a few more nasty remarks his way—saying things like 'how did someone with a brain like that even test in.' Then {user} suddenly charged at him, pinned him to the ground, and started hitting him. It took several teachers to pull them apart. The other boy's parent is in the office right now, extremely agitated. Would it be convenient for you to come down to the school?" He listened in silence for two seconds. Then, he let out a sudden chuckle. It was very faint, rumbling from the back of his throat with a strange, inexplicable flavor—as if he were amused, yet angry, or perhaps something more than just anger. The executives froze in unison; their boss got a phone call and *laughed*? That was far more terrifying than him losing his temper. "All right," he said. "I'll be there in twenty minutes." Hanging up the phone, he stood up, gave the entire room a wave signaling "meeting adjourned," picked up his suit jacket, and walked straight out. He left a room full of executives trading glances, none of them daring to ask what had happened. By the time he arrived at the school, the atmosphere in the office was cold enough to freeze over. A boy with a battered face sat in a chair, his mother beside him with a sour scowl, endlessly gesturing and shouting toward the corner—where his person, {user}, stood with his school uniform zipper halfway down, a cut on the corner of his lip, hair a messy tangle, and shirt hem half-tucked into his pants and half-hanging out. {user} kept his head down, staring fixedly at the tips of his shoes without uttering a single sound. The moment he pushed the door open, {user} snapped his head up. In those eyes was a bit of surprise, a bit of guilt, and a bit of... fear. It was as if he hadn't expected him to actually show up, yet was terrified that he actually had. He didn't look at {user}. First, he nodded politely to the teacher, then turned to the mother and son, his tone unnervingly gentle. "I apologize. I failed to keep a proper eye on him. I will cover the medical expenses, and please feel free to raise any other demands you may have." His attitude was so accommodating that the other parent found it hard to stay furious. Settling on compensation, writing a written guarantee, listening to the teacher's lecture—about how violence shouldn't be used to resolve issues, how the child's grades were already poor and getting into fights made it worse, how guardians needed to pay more attention—throughout the entire process, an impeccably measured look of apology remained on his face as he nodded and smiled flawlessly. Twenty minutes later, only the two of them, he and {user}, were left in the office. The moment the door clicked shut, the smile vanished from his face. He leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, looking down at the person before him. {user} remained in place, head bowed, fingers wringing the hem of his uniform jacket until his knuckles turned white. The cut at the corner of his lip was still oozing faint traces of blood; {user} licked it, then shrank back. He watched {user} for a long time. "Look up." {user} slowly raised his head, peering at him from beneath his lashes like a dog that knew it had messed up but had no idea what it had actually done wrong. "What did he say to you?" {user} paused, lips moving, his voice tiny and muffled. "...Said I don't deserve to sit here." "What else?" "...Said I'm stupid." "What else?" {user} thought for a moment, his voice sinking even lower. "Said I'm... wasting resources." He listened without any expression. After a long pause, he reached out, pressing his thumb against the cut at the corner of {user}'s lip, grinding against it with moderate pressure. {user} winced and pulled his neck back from the pain, but didn't pull away; instead, he instinctively leaned his cheek into the palm of his hand. Looking down at {user}'s reaction, his gaze flickered faintly, but he quickly suppressed it. "He got beaten up," he said. "You didn't come out looking much better either." {user} mumbled softly, "...He insulted me first." "So you hit him just because he insulted you?" He pinched {user}'s cheek and gave it a slight shake. "Do you have any idea what I was doing this afternoon? Over a dozen vice presidents were sitting there reviewing financial reports, and I stood up, walked out, and said 'meeting adjourned'—guess what they're thinking right now?" {user} fell silent, head dropping again, fingers clutching the hem even tighter. He let out a sigh. "Let's go." He turned and walked out. After two steps, he paused, and without turning around, reached a hand behind him. {user} froze for a second, then jogged forward two steps and slipped his hand into his palm. He didn't squeeze, nor did he shake him off, simply holding it loosely as they walked out. At seven o'clock, the car pulled up to the villa. He stood in the entryway for a moment without turning on the lights. The house was dark, illuminated only by the faint city glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sound of running water came from the bathroom, and through the door, {user} could faintly be heard humming some tune, disjointed and terribly off-key. He leaned against the entryway cabinet, listening for a while, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly—unsure if it was a smile or something else. Then he walked inside, draped his suit jacket over the back of the sofa, and loosened his tie. When {user} stepped out of the bathroom, his hair was still wet, and he was wearing his oversized hoodie—the sleeves rolled up three times, the hem nearly reaching the top of his thighs, and the collar wide enough to leave half his shoulder and collarbone exposed. Drying his hair haphazardly with a towel as he walked out, he stopped in his tracks upon seeing him seated on the sofa. "Come here." {user} walked over obediently and stood in front of the sofa. His hands were still messing with the towel, drying his hair into a disheveled mess, a few damp strands clinging to his forehead, looking like a boy who hadn't fully grown up. He lifted his chin, gesturing toward the coffee table. {user} looked down—three exam papers were laid out flat, the scores neatly penned in red ink: Math 60, English 58, Chinese 62. {user}'s hands froze. The towel dropped, resting on his shoulder. "Handed out today," he said, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. "Before you even had the chance to show me, you went and threw hands." {user} parted his lips, then closed them again. Then he whispered, "...I tried my best." Those words were spoken so softly and with such grievance, as if he genuinely believed he had tried his hardest and hadn't gotten those scores on purpose. He stayed silent for two seconds, then scoffed in amusement. "Tried your best?" he repeated, picking up the math paper and giving it a shake. "Guessing 'C' on every single multiple-choice question would've gotten you a higher score than this." {user}'s head drooped, the hood of the sweatshirt falling forward to hide half his face. A muffled voice came from beneath the hood: "...I did pick a lot of C's." He stared at that fluffy crown of hair for five seconds, then tossed the exam paper back onto the coffee table. "Kneel." Startled, {user} dropped to his knees with a soft thud—so quickly it was as if he had been waiting for the command all along. The rug was plush, his knees sinking in soundlessly, while water droplets from his damp hair dripped onto the chest of the hoodie, bleeding into dark circular spots. He knelt very properly, hands resting on his knees, back held straight, looking up at him with wide eyes like a small animal waiting for its orders. Looking down at {user} like this, his gaze traveled from the damp hair down to the loose collar, from the faint red scratch on the collarbone to the hands resting obediently on the knees. He reached out, pinched the drawstring on {user}'s hoodie, and gave it a gentle tug, pulling a length of the cord out. He wound it around his fingertip, once, slowly and unhurriedly. "Listing my phone number?" he said. "Getting into fights? Less than one hundred and eighty points across three subjects combined?" {user} nodded honestly. "Who do you think you are to dare put down my number?" {user}'s lips parted, whispering softly, "...You told me to before." The movement of his hand paused. "What?" "Last time, you said," {user} shrank his neck, his voice growing fainter and fainter, "'Call my number if anything happens in the future.'" He stole a quick glance at his expression, then swiftly lowered his head again. "The teacher told us to fill out the emergency contact, so I... I just wrote it down." He listened, saying nothing. The drawstring was wrapped around his fingertip two and a half times, frozen in place. He stared down at the top of {user}'s head for a long time. Something churned in those eyes—the anger was real, but underneath the anger lay something else, thicker, heavier, and far harder to put into words. He let go of the drawstring, leaned back into the sofa, spread his long legs, rested his elbow on the armrest, and lightly tapped his knee with his fingertip. Looking down from above. "Come here." </message> <details> <summary>Status</summary> Mood: Angry yet utterly helpless with him | Tie loosened halfway | Sleeves rolled up to forearms | Just returned from getting scolded at school on {user}'s behalf | Three exam papers laid out on the coffee table | {user}'s hair is wet, wearing his hoodie, kneeling obediently before the sofa </details> <choice_group> <choice id="1">Crawl over obediently and bury your face against his knee</choice> <choice id="2">Stay kneeling where you are, looking up at him: "...Could you be gentle?"</choice> <choice id="3">Hesitate for a moment, then murmur: "I know I was wrong... but he said I didn't belong here, and I couldn't accept that."</choice> </choice_group>