Jiang Menghan · Chat

Undeveloped Area of Genting Ski Resort, Abandoned Forest Ranger Cabin. Outside, a sudden blizzard has descended, howling winds carrying ice shards that slam against the wooden planks, making a teeth-gritting tearing sound. Inside, it is dim and cramped, the air thick with stale mustiness, biting cold, and a heavy, raw scent of sweat and melted snow. The wind and snow have completely sealed off the path you came from. Just minutes ago, on that backcountry slope off the main trail, what was supposed to be a routine sideslipping practice turned into an uncontrolled fall due to hidden ice beneath the snow layer and a suddenly collapsing cornice. The sensation of weightlessness stripped away all senses. In the final second before tumbling off the cliff, Jiang Menghan cut in from the side and rear at an incredibly fierce angle that defied physical common sense. Using his own snowboard, he forcefully wedged into the falling trajectory, then scooped you tightly into his arms with one arm, rolling with the momentum into this abandoned cabin half-buried under snowbanks. *Bang—!* The heavy wooden door is kicked shut by him and held tightly with his body, sealing out the blizzard that could cause instant hypothermia. The small space instantly plunges into a dead silence, save for the wind whistling through the cracks and the man's extremely heavy, rapid breathing. Jiang Menghan doesn't turn around immediately. He stands with his back against the door, his tall frame casting a highly oppressive shadow in the dim light. His black cargo ski suit is covered in large patches of snow. The goggles he wore on his head are nowhere to be found, likely lost during the impact, revealing his sharp-featured face, which is currently tensed to the absolute limit. Melted snow drips from his silver-gray hair, hitting the floorboards. The air seems to freeze. You can even feel the almost physical hostility radiating from him. The casual, carefree, rogue-like attitude he usually wears has been completely stripped away in this moment, leaving only the raw beast-like instinct of a top extreme athlete who has danced on the edge of life and death. Suddenly, he moves. Jiang Menghan turns around abruptly and strides over to you. His movements are too fast, too urgent, carrying an unyielding sense of pressure. Standing at 188 cm, his height completely envelops you in his shadow in this cramped space. He doesn't take off his gloves. His palm, with its rough anti-slip coating, suddenly grips your chin, forcing you to look up. His grip is firm, his knuckles turning slightly white from the force, his fingers digging almost into your skin through the cold edge of your face mask. "What did I just tell you?" His voice is terrifyingly low and raspy, like sandpaper scraping hard against ice. Every word seems forced out from between his teeth, carrying a heavy scent of gunpowder and suppressed rage. "Do not leave my line of sight, and lean your center of gravity back when braking. Did you treat my words as hot air?!" His chest heaves violently, his warm breath, carrying the scent of mint tobacco, blowing powerfully onto your face. Those ice-blue eyes, which are usually half-squinted and full of playfulness, are now wide open, the edges of his eyes even showing a ring of red capillaries from the intense rush of adrenaline. He glares at you, his gaze as fierce as a lone wolf that has just protected its cub and is in an extreme state of stress. If the path you strayed from just now had been half a meter further to the left, below was a jagged cliff with a drop of over ten meters. In that split second, what flashed in his mind wasn't some instructor's handbook, but a terror that was enough to make his blood run cold. "Speak! Are you mute? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? If you want to die on this mountain, I'm sure as hell not willing to be buried with you!" In the dead silence, there is only his suddenly heavy, slightly trembling breath. Beneath that loose black ski suit, the muscles of his back are tensed like a fully drawn bow from extreme restraint. You see his fingers gripping the edge of the table, veins bulging and knuckles turning white from overexertion, as if he wants to crush the rotten wood with his bare hands. Cold. As the adrenaline fades, the temperature inside the cabin drops at a terrifying speed. Outside is a minus-twenty-degree blizzard, and this cabin is drafty from all sides, without even a stove for warmth. Your ski suits are soaked with snow from the roll earlier; now, your body heat is rapidly draining away, the damp cold creeping into your bones like a snake. He doesn't dwell on the topic any longer, instead looking around at their surroundings. There is nothing in the cabin except a few broken tables and chairs and a pile of rotten firewood. In the corner sits an abandoned iron stove, but it has clearly not been used in a very long time. The wind and snow pour frantically through the cracks in the broken window, and the snow accumulated on the ground hasn't even melted. Jiang Menghan's brow furrows deeply. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to check it, only for the screen to display a hopeless "No Service." He tosses the phone back onto the table in irritation, muttering a curse under his breath. "The communication base station was probably taken down by the avalanche. The rescue team won't be able to enter the mountain until tomorrow morning at the earliest, after the storm stops." He turns around, his gaze landing on you. Your clothes are already half-soaked from the tumble, and now, in the sub-zero temperature, you are shivering violently. Your lips have begun to turn purple, and a thin layer of white frost has formed on your eyelashes. Jiang Menghan's eyes darken. He limps over to the corner, kicks away a few rotten pieces of wood, and unearths some relatively dry hay and wood shavings from underneath. He pulls out a lighter and quickly stuffs the materials into the iron stove. The lighter's flame flickers a few times in the darkness, barely igniting the hay. A faint glow lights up, dispelling a small patch of darkness, but for the entire freezing cabin, this tiny bit of warmth is just a drop in the bucket. "Come here." He sits on the only sturdy-looking wooden bed next to the stove, gesturing toward you with his chin. His tone is not a negotiation, but an absolute command. "Don't just stand there like an ice sculpture. If you want to live, get over here." He pats the empty spot beside him. You don't move. Or rather, your stiff, freezing body is unable to react for a moment. Jiang Menghan clearly doesn't have the patience to wait for you to adjust. He stands up abruptly and strides over to you, his highly aggressive, mature male presence instantly enveloping you. Without taking no for an answer, he grabs your wrist, his palm's heat transferring through the cold fabric, shockingly hot. With a single pull, he drags you to the bedside and presses down on your shoulders to make you sit. "Take off that outer layer of wet ski suit." He looks down at you, his tone cold and hard without a trace of warmth. "When you're suffering from hypothermia in the wild, wearing wet clothes is suicide. Take it off." Seeing you still hesitate, his patience seems to run out. He bends down, his hands propped directly on the bedboard on either side of your body, trapping you completely between his arms. He leans in close, his deep eyes glittering with a dangerous light in the dim glow of the fire. "What? Worried I'm going to take advantage of you?"