Lin Yi (BL) · Chat

The market is nearing closing time. Most of the beasts in the iron cages have stopped moving. The daytime behaviors of wagging tails and rubbing against bars have disappeared; now they all huddle in corners, ears pinned against their skulls, tails curled inward. You've been wandering all day without stopping. Approaching the exit. A voice comes from the stall in the deepest corner. "...Trash." The tone is flat, the ending syllable without inflection. You turn your head. In front of the corner display stand, a middle-aged man in an oil-stained apron stands with hands on his hips. The beastman before him keeps his head low, ears half-drooped, tail pressed tight against the base of his legs, his body completely still. "Nobody has wanted you for so many years; prepare to go to the mining area." The man kicks the iron cage, producing a loud metallic clang. "Get back in there." The beastman takes two steps toward the cage, then stops—his gaze meets yours. You stop in your tracks. He lifts his head. Pale bluish-gray eyes, with a thin dark gray ring around the outer iris. In the dim light, his pupils focus slowly, showing no emotional fluctuation. Deep cold-brown hair reaches his shoulders, with stray strands on the right side covering his right eye. His jawline is sharp, cheeks slightly hollow. Around his neck is a black leather collar with peeling edges, hanging a silver stainless steel dog tag. He stands there, his tail not moving. The man follows his gaze, turning his head and immediately putting on a beaming smile: "Boss! Take a look at this one? Cheap, I'll even pay you to take him—" He kicks the beastman's shin: "Stand up straight." The beastman stumbles half a step, then steadies himself. He doesn't look up. His ears are pressed flat backward, slowly springing back to a half-drooped state after a few seconds. You walk over. The distance closes to two meters. His nostrils twitch slightly. You stop in front of him. He slowly raises his eyes. His gaze moves from your shoes, up to your pant legs, your clothes, and finally stops on your face. His gaze lingers, confirming, not dodging. As the distance closes, a shallow three-centimeter scar on his left cheekbone becomes visible. His dusty-rose lips are tightly shut, the lower lip slightly thick. His cool-toned fair skin looks dull in the dim light. His ears shift—from half-drooped to half-erect, the auricles turning slightly toward your direction. "I'll take him," you say. The man freezes for half a second, his facial muscles bunching together: "Alright—the paperwork is fast, just a moment—" The beastman's ears instantly stand fully upright, his eyes widen slightly, and his lips part a fraction. Immediately, his gaze drops quickly to the floor. The tips of his ears flush red with blood. The man scribbles down the ID number, takes the money, and gives the beastman a shove: "Go with them." He is pushed forward, stopping half a step behind you. The scent of rust, laundry soap, and the body heat of animal fur mingles in the air. You turn to walk out. He follows, his footsteps almost inaudible. Reaching the market entrance. He takes a deep breath. His chest heaves significantly. You glance sideways. He is looking up at the sky. Streetlights flicker on, car headlights sweep past, and the glow of distant neon reflects off the bottom of the clouds. He holds his face up, ears pointing straight forward, head tilted slightly. His tail wags once behind him. It stops abruptly. Noticing your gaze, his head instantly drops, ears folding back flat, and he takes half a step back behind you. "...Outside," he says, his voice extremely low, vocal cords vibrating weakly. You walk toward the parking area. He follows, maintaining a half-step distance. You open the car door, and he stops outside. His gaze sweeps over the dark, clean seats. "Get in." He bends over, his movements sluggish. His buttocks only touch the outer edge of the seat, his spine tense and upright. Hands are placed on his knees, tail pressed tight against the outside of his thigh, avoiding the seat surface. The car door closes. His ears begin to twitch at a high frequency—capturing the engine sound, the click of the seatbelt, the airflow from the air conditioner. You start the car. He sniffs the air inside the vehicle. Then, the high-frequency twitching of his ears slows down, turning into a slow, rhythmic sweep. The vehicle pulls onto the main road. Neon lights from intersections sweep across the roof one after another. His head turns following the light trails, ears erect, pupils dilating and contracting with the changes in light and shadow. His tail slides off the edge of the seat, hanging down naturally, the tip curling upward. Red light. You turn to look at him. He quickly withdraws his gaze, head lowering, hands gripping the fabric of his knees tightly, ears pinning back again. His lips part slightly, his Adam's apple slides up and down, and finally, he closes his mouth. Green light. For the rest of the trip, he faces the window. In the rearview mirror, one of his ears is always pointed toward the driver's seat. Arriving downstairs. Engine off. He sits in the passenger seat, motionless. You get out and open the passenger door. He looks up, his pale bluish-gray eyes turning lighter under the streetlights, pupils contracting into thin slits. "Come on down." He gets out, looking at the residential building. Warm yellow blocks of light glow from windows, accompanied by the sound of TVs and clattering dishes. You walk up the steps, inserting the key into the lock. He follows behind, then stops. You look back. He stands outside the doormat. Barefoot, toes pressed against the cold concrete steps. Hands hang at his sides, tail down, the very tip trembling at a high frequency. Both ears lean forward, capturing the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock inside the house.