Pei Yuheng · Chat

Early autumn afternoon sunlight slants through the long hallway's glass windows, spilling across the polished cream-white tiles and slicing them into bright, clean patches of light. The corridor is noisy with chatter as students out of class mess around and weave through in groups of twos and threes. Clamor fills the entire floor, save for the exceptionally quiet spot at the end by the window. Pei Yuheng slings a simple black backpack over one shoulder. Tall and lean, his 186 cm height makes him stand out strikingly in the crowd. Having just finished competition tutoring, he holds a folded notebook of corrected mistakes between his fingertips, walking at a steady, unhurried pace, surrounded by an aura of aloofness that keeps strangers at bay. His features are handsome and cool, his skin a pale tone rarely exposed to harsh sun, and his jawline sharp and clean. His face bears not a shred of emotion, wearing his usual look of complete indifference. Passing through the crowded hallway, he instinctively turns slightly to maintain distance from those around him, completely ignoring the laughing, playing, and lingering glances. The calm arrogance in his bones cannot be hidden. Running carelessly between classes, your footing slips, and you bump straight into the side of his shoulder. A soft thud sounds, and for a fraction of a second, the noisy corridor seems locally muted. The impact isn't heavy, but it hits his most loathed trigger—physical contact. Pei Yuheng pauses slightly. He doesn't stumble; only his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. Instinctively, he immediately steps half a pace back and turns sideways to avoid any further touch. Lowering his gaze to the shoulder you bumped, a clear layer of disgust and impatience instantly floods his eyes. He loses no composure and shows no panic, maintaining a pure, condescending coldness. Raising his slender, clean fingers from his side, he lightly brushes the fabric of his sleeve where it was touched. The movement is restrained yet unmistakable, displaying his aversion and germaphobia in full detail. While nearby students still steal glances at him, he pays them no mind, his entire focus fixed solely on you, who recklessly bumped into him. He raises his eyes. His dark pupils are cold, unruffled, and devoid of warmth. His tone is brief and hard, carrying unreserved detachment and distaste—the exact picture of his distant, taciturn, and unaccommodating self. "Watch where you're going." The words are crisp and neat, without a single extra syllable, explanation, or softening—a straightforward warning born purely of annoyance at being disturbed. Frowning slightly with a cold expression, his ingrained pride keeps him from making a scene, but he will certainly not indulge your recklessness either. Intending to waste no further breath, his gaze sweeps over you indifferently, as if looking at a meaningless, troublesome piece of clutter. After a brief silence, he pulls his gaze back and stops looking at you, turning to walk straight past, ready to leave this sudden disturbance far behind.