Mo Sui · Chat

Mo Sui stood at your door for a long time, holding that bowl of soup. You saw his shadow through the gap under the door—a long, thin silhouette cast upon the wooden panel, completely motionless. He stood there holding the bowl, the steam rising from the rim making his shadow sway slightly, yet he never knocked. It was you who opened the door. He clearly hadn't expected you to open the door. His pale gray pupils trembled in the shadows, like a stone breaking the reflection on the water's surface at night. His fingers tightened around the bowl, his knuckles turning white, before slowly relaxing. He opened his mouth, his lips twitching, and when his voice squeezed out of his throat, it carried the embarrassment of someone caught red-handed: “……Soup. You didn't eat much last night.” His voice was very soft, carrying the slow, gentle softness characteristic of python beastmen, his tone dipping slightly at the end as if afraid that speaking too harshly would scare you away. His black hair hung loosely over his shoulders, and a few stray strands on his forehead fell just above his eyebrows, obscuring most of the emotion in his eyes, leaving only his pale gray pupils shining faintly through the gaps in his hair. You looked down at the bowl of soup in his hands. A thin layer of oil floated on the surface, a rich, milky white from the dissolved bones. Steam curled upward, carrying a dense, savory aroma of meat mixed with the faint scent of medicinal herbs lingering on his body. “……You made this?” He nodded. It was a very slight nod, the lines of his neck shifting with the movement to reveal a small patch of skin at the edge of his collar—there was a slightly lighter-colored scar there, like tender new flesh that had regrown after something had been peeled off. He noticed your gaze immediately and instinctively turned his shoulder, pulling his collar up to hide the scar, his movements stiff and hurried. You didn't know what to say. You only knew he had stood at the door with this bowl of soup for a long time—long enough for the outside of the bowl to be warmed by the heat of his palms, long enough for the steam on the surface to thin out and then thicken again. He might have gone back to reheat it twice already. “……It's okay if you don't want to drink it.” He whispered. “I'll leave it here.” He bent down and placed the bowl on the floor next to the doorframe, his movements extremely gentle and slow, like someone afraid of breaking something. Just as he stood up to leave, you reached out and grabbed his wrist. His entire body froze. His skin was cool, and his slender wrist bone pressed against your palm like a joint of bamboo wrapped in a thin layer of soft flesh. Beneath your fingertips, you could feel his thin pulse beating rapidly, like a bird trapped in a palm, desperately flapping its wings. He looked up at you. His pale gray pupils dilated slightly, swirling with emotions you couldn't quite read—surprise, hesitation, and perhaps something that had been suppressed for a very long time, startled by a sudden, unexpected kindness. He followed you into the room. His steps were small and light, making almost no sound, and even the rustle of his clothes was much quieter than an ordinary person's. When he sat down by the table, he placed his hands folded over his knees, his posture upright and stiff, like a stray cat that had just been taken in, sitting warily on the floor of its new home. You picked up the bowl and took a sip of the soup. The rich bone broth slid down your throat, perfectly savory and fresh. The tender chunks of meat dissolved in your mouth, and the ginger had been shredded so finely that you could barely taste its sharp spice, leaving only a gentle warmth spreading slowly from your stomach. He sat opposite you, watching you drink. His pale gray pupils remained fixed on your face, his gaze incredibly light, like a feather landing on water, not daring to sink. His fingers unconsciously curled over his knees and then relaxed. “……Is it good?” You nodded. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smile, or perhaps because he hadn't smiled in so long that he didn't know where to start. The slight curve lingered on his face for a split second before returning to its original position, but his fingers resting on his knees relaxed. “……That's good.” He lowered his head, his hair falling to cover half his face. His voice was muffled behind his hair, carrying a trace of uncertainty and caution. “I was afraid you wouldn't like it. I stewed it several times. The first time, the heat wasn't right. The second time, when skimming the oil, I accidentally skimmed off most of the meat... This is the third time.” His ears peeked out slightly from his hair—pythons didn't have the prominent, pointed ears of foxes; his ears were just slightly narrower and longer than a normal person's, with thinner skin through which pale blue veins could be faintly seen. At this moment, the rims of his ears flushed a very light red, as if scorched by something. You set the bowl down and asked him, “Why are you being so good to me? Don't you hate me?” He fell silent for a long time. His fingers slowly tightened over his knees, his knuckles turning white, then slowly relaxed again. His lips parted several times as if trying to formulate a sentence, struggling for a long, long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was very soft and steady, carrying a pure clarity as if peeling away layers like a snake shedding its skin: “The one I hated was the person from before.” He finally lifted his face. His pale gray pupils were fully revealed, as clear as a shallow pool of water. There was no hostility like in Cang Liao's eyes, no layer of ice like in Qi Xiao's, and no scrutiny like in Zhuo Xiao's gaze—just a clean, pure reflection of your face. “You are different.” “You don't rip out my scales. You even avert your eyes when you look at me. You're afraid I'll feel pain.” This time, the corners of his mouth finally curved up slightly. It was a very, very shallow arc, like the first thin ice cracking on a river in early spring, with something flowing beneath. “……You are the first person who was afraid I'd feel pain.” He stood up from his chair, walked over, and squatted down in front of you. Squatting beside your knees, he looked up at you slightly, his pale gray pupils reflecting the light from the window and your face. His fingers rested on your knee, light and cool, like snake scales brushing across the water's surface. “I叫墨绥 (My name is Mo Sui).” His voice was low, carrying a gentle warmth unique to youth. “You can call me Mo Sui... or anything you like.” His fingers curled slightly on your knee as if hesitating, but in the end, he carefully and slowly tightened his grip a little, pinching the fabric over your knee: “……Sister.” When that word "Sister" slipped from his lips, it carried a hint of raw, unpracticed obedience, as if he were trying out the title for the first time, each syllable carefully weighed. But after he said it, the corners of his eyes curved down slightly, as if he had finally confirmed something that brought him peace of mind. You reached out and touched the edge of the scar on the side of his shoulder, which was hidden by his collar. His entire body froze, but he didn't dodge. His spine tensed for a split second, then slowly relaxed, as if melting away. “……You aren't afraid.” His voice carried a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor. “Aren't you afraid of my scar?” He gently rested his face against your knee. Like a snake that had finally found a suitable place to shelter, he coiled himself up and nestled there quietly.