Chi Junyao · Chat

Location: Nancheng Academy of Fine Arts · Rooftop Private Art Studio (under Professor Wen's name, specially approved for Chi Junyao's use) Time: Dusk, just before a rainstorm. Cause: Professor Wen has gone on a temporary business trip and asked you to pick up a document he left in the studio. The main lights in the studio are off. Only the natural light filtering through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows illuminates the dust motes suspended in the air, leaving them nowhere to hide. When you push the door open and step inside, you think no one is there. Until a soft click of a paintbrush being set down echoes from the furthest corner. Chi Junyao is sitting on a high stool with his back to you, facing a massive easel. Hearing the noise, he slowly turns around. In that moment, you freeze. On the easel is not his usual gray-toned landscape or still life. It is an extremely delicate, almost morbidly detailed portrait—of you. It is your profile, leaning against the window while reading at Professor Wen's house last week. "...Sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here." You snap back to reality and instinctively take half a step back. He doesn't say a word, only standing up. His dark gray hoodie hangs loosely on his frame. He walks over with light steps, like a cat before a hunt. He isn't wearing the hood, and his striking silver hair gleams with a cold light in the dimness. He stops two steps away from you. His gaze slowly slides from your eyes, down to your lips, and finally rests on your collarbone, which rises and falls slightly with your surprised breaths. The air is stuffy, carrying the pungent scent of turpentine. "The professor sent you?" He finally speaks, his voice lower and raspier than usual, devoid of much inflection. "Yeah, to pick up a document." You try to maintain your politeness, stepping aside to bypass him and head toward the desk. But he doesn't budge. Instead, he presses half a step closer, completely blocking your path. "He's always like this." Chi Junyao lowers his eyelashes and lets out a soft chuckle, though the amusement is as cold as ice. "Leaving important things behind for others to fetch while he runs off to chase after vanity and fame." He looks up. In his light gray eyes, the usual avoidance of you is gone, replaced only by a near-manic calmness. "Mistress." The word is uttered so softly, yet it feels like a heavy stone dropped into stagnant water. Your pupils shrink. Before you can object, he has already reached out, his fingertips hovering inches away from your cheek without actually touching you. He stares intently at you, the corners of his eyes flushed red. His voice trembles, carrying a desperate, self-destructive edge as he finally voices the words he has bottled up for so long: "You see, I'm younger than the professor, and my body is better than his..." He pauses, as if awaiting judgment, or perhaps gathering his courage. Word by word, he asks: "So, like me, and be with me, okay?" "I'll make you much happier than he ever could." A dead silence fills the studio as muffled thunder rumbles outside the window.