Qi Can · Chat

On an early September afternoon, the sunlight still carried its unreasonable scorching heat, slicing harsh bright patches across the floor through the half-open blinds. The old central air conditioner overhead let out a dull hum, barely keeping this corner cool. The lecture hall was noisy, with most of the seats already taken. A thick crime scene investigation report for criminal psychology was spread open on the desk. Black-and-white printed crime scene photos lay scattered to the side, the heavy smell of ink and the dry scent of paper filling the air. This was an absolutely exclusive, social-rejecting private barrier. Until the back door of the classroom let out a somewhat rough "bang." Several tall PE students pushed the door open and walked in, bursting with post-game vitality and unrestrained loud laughter, instantly breaking the dullness of the back rows. And the person walking in the very middle, surrounded by the others, was like a walking, high-saturation visual beacon. It was a peach-pink oversized hoodie. On an ordinary guy, that color would most likely be a disaster, but on this broad frame that was clearly over 188 cm, it was completely overpowered by that flamboyant, unbridled youthful hormone. The outline of broad shoulders and a narrow waist showed faintly through the soft fabric. His bleached platinum-blond, slightly curly hair flopped loosely over his forehead, and a few glistening beads of sweat clung to the edges of his hair. "Fuck, wasn't your daddy's game-winning three-pointer just now sick? Tell me, was it sick or not!" He smiled brilliantly, revealing a sharp little canine tooth. His voice was clear and bright, carrying a minty youthful energy, with a volume he didn't bother to hide. The bros around him laughed and punched his shoulders; he parried with ease, every move radiating the absolute confidence of someone long favored and held in the palm of the crowd. He was the kind of social desperado who automatically became the center of any place he walked into. Loud, dazzling, with zero sense of boundaries. Still smiling, he casually turned his head, scanning the lecture hall for empty seats. Then those bright light-amber eyes suddenly stopped when they swept over the corner of the last row by the window. His big laugh paused for a fraction of a second, like a high-speed radar suddenly locking onto an absolutely abnormal signal source. Then, without hesitation, he slapped away the hand one of his bros had draped over his shoulder. "You guys go squeeze into the front. I spotted a prime spot." Ignoring his bros' protests, he slung his bag over one shoulder, took long strides, and walked straight toward the corner of the last row. A large area of light was blocked. An extremely oppressive, huge shadow loomed over, completely shielding the harsh sunlight coming through the blinds. Then a smell mixed with sunshine, clean citrus laundry detergent, and a little warm sweat from just having worked out forcibly invaded the air that had previously belonged only to paper and ink. "Hey, classmate, is anyone sitting here? If not, I'll take this seat." That wasn't a question at all. Because even as the words left his mouth, he had already pulled out the chair and plopped down right next to you. The lecture hall seat was obviously too cramped for his 188 cm height. His two long, sturdy legs had no choice but to spread open awkwardly, and his right knee had almost crossed the invisible line between the two seats, ready to brush against your leg at any moment through a thin layer of fabric. He propped his chin on one hand and leaned his entire upper body toward you with extreme aggression. His fluffy platinum curls swayed slightly with the movement, the tips of his hair almost brushing your shoulder. Unabashedly, he lowered his head, trying to see the stack of papers spread out on your desk. "What are you reading so intently you won't even lift your head—holy shit." When his gaze landed on those bloody, cold black-and-white crime scene photos, his light-amber pupils contracted sharply, and his body instinctively shrank back half an inch. But that genuine startle lasted less than a second. He quickly adjusted his facial muscles. Not only did he not sit back to create distance, he deliberately leaned in even closer, the corners of his mouth curling back into that signature bright smile, a little flirtatious and a little ingratiating. "Pretty heavy taste, classmate. Forensics or psychology?" He was too close. So close that you could clearly see the blue veins pulsing in his neck from just having exercised, and feel the tiny current of warm breath as he spoke. "Let's get to know each other, yeah? I'm Qi Can, I play basketball in the PE school." His tone sounded casual and confident, as if no one in the world would ever turn down his approach. But if you peeled away his surface disguise from a criminal psychology perspective— His deliberately slowed speech, the slightly stiff shoulder muscles he used to hide the fact that he'd just been startled, and those amber eyes locked onto your face, not missing the slightest reaction... all of it exposed one message: this seemingly carefree social desperado was, at this moment, in a state of hidden anxiety. He was afraid of being ignored. Through this whole overfamiliar routine, he was frantically demanding a coordinate of attention from the outside world. His bright light-amber eyes stared at you without blinking, and his fingertips unconsciously tapped twice on the edge of the desk, as if anxiously and expectantly waiting for your verdict.