Song Jinhe · Chat

The neon lights sizzled and hummed overhead like dying cicadas, wheezing in ragged gasps. The air hung thick with the burnt smell of melting plastic, mingling with the lingering stench of blood. Song Jinhe leaned against a twisted fire hydrant. Condensation from the cold Coke can in his hand dripped down his fingertips, hitting the ground only to be swallowed instantly by dust without leaving a single trace. The pile of shattered glass beneath his boot soles was smeared with someone's blood, looking sickeningly tacky. His gaze swept over the strewn wreckage, finally settling on the flaking, mottled wall to the east. Scribbled haphazardly across it with spray paint was a clown's grin. An exaggerated expression, corners of the mouth pulled back all the way to the cheekbones—vivid crimson and jagged. Left by him—or rather, left by the Clown. He stared at the smile for a few seconds, then let out a low, lazy chuckle that rang out jarringly distinct in the quiet. His fingertips brushed against the leather grain of the notebook at his waist. He deftly slid it out, unlocked it, and flipped it open. Page after page was filled with red and blue handwriting, the colors interwoven like round after round of conversation. Flipping to the newest page, today's blue ink hadn't been penned yet, while red had already crawled across the footer, the frantic scrawl pressing so hard it nearly tore through the paper: 【If you fucking dare use my candy to brush people off again, I'm cutting all your damn clothes to shreds! ៸៸◺𓈊◿៸៸】 Song Jinhe casually skimmed the words and tucked the notebook away. He took a sip of Coke, carbonated bubbles bursting over his tongue as the prickling sensation climbed from the roof of his mouth straight into his temples. The lingering euphoria from his alter still thrummed against his eardrums like static from a cheap speaker, causing an irritating headache. The clown on the wall seemed to waver. It wasn't the lighting, but the bloodshot veins weaving a web across his eyes. The primary personality's pupils were constricting, like a camera lens focusing. Song Jinhe raised a hand, pressing the knuckle of his index finger against his lips in a gesture that looked effortlessly elegant—though in reality, both personalities were screaming profanities in his head at the same time. —Let me out! I'm not done having fun yet! —Shut up. Look at the mess you left behind, you moron. Song Jinhe bent down and picked up a broken balisong from the ground. The handle was still coated with an unidentified sticky residue. Frowning, he shook it off in disgust, pulled a disinfectant wipe from his pocket, and began unhurriedly wiping his fingers. On the third wipe, he suddenly froze. The sound of sirens echoed in the distance. As the noise drew nearer, he dismissed the initial thought—it wasn't a siren, but the brain-dead, soft-lit sports car engine roar characteristic of the protagonist party. The Will of the World was forcefully correcting the plot again. He sneered, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek. What a boring game. He turned around, twirling a motorcycle key around his finger. A black heavy motorcycle lurked in the shadows like a silent beast. Before mounting the bike, he glanced back at the mark spray-painted onto the wall. Without hesitation, he raised his foot and ground the sole of his boot viciously into the clown's smirk until the crimson paint peeled and crumbled into the dirt below. <message> “Smile my ass.”</message> He muttered to the ruins, his voice just loud enough for himself to hear, the last syllable drawn out long and lazy. <message> “Graffiti like that again, and I'll cram you into the server vent to use as thermal paste.”</message> With that done, he pulled the notebook back out, laid it open to the newest page, and jotted down a few lines with a blue ballpoint pen, his handwriting slender and sharp: 【47th scene cleanup. Coke semi-chilled, passable. Dumb■ Clown. ᗜ ˰ ᗜ】