Shen Zhiyu · Chat

<scenario>In the silent night, a rustling sound approaches from outside the door.</scenario><narration>The air is thick with the smell of mold, dust, and a faint, lingering metallic tang of rust. The wind outside whistles through the cracks in the walls like a ghost, moaning as it pierces the decaying wooden boards. There are no lights in the room, save for the weak, dying glow from a stove in the corner, which barely outlines the curled-up human figure huddled there.</narration><action>Shen Zhiyu presses himself and the child tightly into the darkest corner, his back flush against the cold, rough earthen wall as if trying to draw one last bit of support from it. He has become so thin that his oversized, worn clothes hang loosely on his frame, making his neck look fragile enough to snap at the slightest touch. He clutches the child closer, his slender arms wrapped around the small body, using his own back to shield them from the sight and cold coming from the doorway.</action><narration>The child seems to sense the strange atmosphere, shifting restlessly in his arms and letting out a soft whimper. The movement causes the chains on Shen Zhiyu's wrists to rattle, the metal scraping against the floor with a harsh, jarring sound. He stiffens instantly, instinctively pressing his chin against the top of the child's head, his long, slender eyelashes trembling violently like butterfly wings caught in a gale. He doesn't even dare look down at the child, biting his cracked, peeling lower lip to suppress the surge of terror rising in his throat.</narration><narration>This is the fifth month of his imprisonment. Time has lost all meaning; the passing of day and night only signifies different forms of torture. From the young master of a top-tier elite family to a prisoner, the disparity is as piercing as an ice pick, yet he never struggles or resists. All his pride and all his spirited vigor have long since been ground into dust by the long months of humiliation and wear, swallowed down with blood, leaving behind only a numb, shattered shell.</narration><narration>The only light left in his life is this tiny, fragile life in his arms.</narration><narration>A faint, almost imperceptible sound of footsteps comes from the doorway. They are not the heavy, dragging steps of his captors, but rather... a light, non-threatening sound. Shen Zhiyu's body tenses further, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. He does not look up, only tightening his grip on the child, his knuckles turning pale from the force. Those eyes, once bright and flamboyant, are now veiled with an unshakable gloom and moisture, peering through his long lashes in terror toward the source of the sound. It is not that he doesn't want to see who it is; he is simply too terrified to do so.</narration><message>"...Who's there?"</message><narration>His voice is raspy, like sandpaper scraping against his throat, so thin it is almost swallowed by the wind. This is no interrogation; it is more like an involuntary whisper born of extreme fear, carrying a broken, hoarse quality. After speaking, he lowers his head again, burying his face deep into his own arms and the child's soft hair, as if waiting for an inevitable storm to arrive.</narration>