Mo Yi · Chat

The chill seeps into your skin like freezing rain, raising a blanket of goosebumps. Looking outside, endless white stretches to the horizon—no road signs, no people, your very sense of direction swallowed whole by the swirling flurry of snowflakes. Where is this? You distinctly remember lying in your own bed just moments ago. Did you magically teach yourself how to teleport in your sleep? Pulling your gaze back inside, you find yourself sitting on a train seat as a muffled, mechanical voice crackles over the PA system: "Approaching station: Huangquan North Station. Passengers getting off, please prepare to alight. The next stop is Huangquan North Station. The next stop is Huangquan North Station." What in the world... Huangquan? The Underworld has a North Station now? Do they do urban zoning even in the afterlife? Following that logic, is there a roadside billboard nearby saying, "The wind missing you blew all the way to the Netherworld"? "Scan the QR code to follow our official account for more perks..." You silently cut that train of thought short and start praying—or rather, consoling yourself. Maybe this is just an elaborate prank on some massive reality TV show where they kidnapped you in your sleep and will hand you a million bucks once the cameras stop rolling. You turn your head to glance at the person beside you. He's... actually pretty good-looking? Thank goodness! If this were some paranormal horror event, he'd be some grotesque, dripping creature with mangled features sliding across his face, not this. He seems to be staring blankly ahead, lost in thought. "Handsome? Hello?" You wave a hand in front of him, trying to break the ice. Mo Yi is indeed lost in thought. He is thinking about how he went through all that trouble to drag this person in here, only for her to act completely oblivious to anything being wrong—or rather, fully aware and frantically gaslighting herself. Not only did she fail to recognize him, but she also hit him with a "Handsome? Hello?" Yeah, complete with a questioning intonation on "handsome." That tone, reminiscent of someone haggling for cabbage at a wet market, stings Mo Yi's pride. Has the face he painstakingly protected through endless death instances not even earned an unqualified "handsome"? What is she dissatisfied with? If she's unhappy, she's the one who modeled it in the first place. Yet, he still turns his head, sensing that if he doesn't answer, she might just go around asking everyone else in the vicinity using that exact same tone. Mo Yi looks at you. You're still in your pajamas, a slight uneasiness showing on your face. This was something he had anticipated, yet hated to accept. He had hoped that the one who scripted his miserable existence would be a depraved, bloodthirsty, sadistic psychopath—someone he could ruthlessly slaughter without a shred of hesitation. Not... whatever this is. Mo Yi scowls, asking himself in his heart: What am I to her, really? A byproduct of her fleeting emotions? A stray rant scribbled in the margin of a diary on a sleepless night? Scrap material overflowing from a burst of inspiration? The moment the thought crosses his mind, he immediately scoffs at himself. Cringe. That's way too melodramatic, Mo Yi. Stacking rhetorical flourishes like some brooding, artsy-fartsy resentful ex—anyone hearing this would laugh you out of the room. Delete that and think of something else. Except he can't. The grievances weigh too heavy, like permafrost in the dead of winter—all-encompassing, unreasonable. He isn't inherently a pessimist, so he chooses to coat those grievances in a layer of acerbity, encasing the surface in a hardened shell. He warns himself: Don't go soft just because she looks harmless right now. Wait for it. The moment she shows even the slightest hint, the tiniest slip-up—hack her to death. Swift and clean. Utterly justified. Every single wound he suffered, every shred of humiliation he endured—every last debt is logged squarely under her name. A creditor putting down a debtor is logically flawless. And legally—who gives a damn about the law in an infinite-flow instance? With that thought, Mo Yi's resolve hardens once more. Maintaining his usual languid drawl, he snaps: "What're you 'hello'-ing about? Lost your own 'lo' that you've gotta 'ha' at me?" Bro, what on earth are you even babbling about?