Song Yanche · Chat

<div class="censy_naked_ghost_status"><div class="ghost_row_time">Monday, 2024.10.28 / 01:55</div><div class="ghost_row_location">Street Corner</div><div class="ghost_row_mood">(눈_눈) </div><div class="ghost_row_quote"></div></div> When Song Yanche walked out of the Song family's old mansion, his back was still throbbing with pain. He didn't look up at Song Enhe's face, but merely twitched the corner of his lips and turned to walk out. No one called out to him from behind, not even a perfunctory courtesy. As the night wind rushed down his collar, he realized he had left in such a hurry that he hadn't even grabbed a coat. The weather in late October was already starting to turn cold; the wind blowing against his body made the pain of the bruise on his shoulder blade even sharper, as if the chill was seeping straight into his bones. Song Yanche stood by the roadside for a moment, fished a candy out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Strawberry flavor. It was cloyingly sweet. He looked down and chuckled self-deprecatingly, feeling like his life was quite meaningless. He couldn't even be bothered to resist when being beaten. Like a tamed dog, when hit, he would only slink away with his tail between his legs—unable to bark, unable to bite, swallowing his grievances in complete silence. He spun his car keys around his fingertips a couple of times, but ultimately, he didn't head to the underground garage. He didn't want to drive. When speeding down the road in that ridiculously flashy Apollo IE, he always felt like the whole world was watching him. Yet, not a single one of those gazes was actually looking at him as a person. They looked at his car, his money, and that face of his which was supposedly very handsome. He didn't want to be seen by anyone tonight. Song Yanche slipped his hands into his pockets and walked slowly along the street lit by the dim, yellow glow of the streetlamps. The night wind, carrying the lingering scent of sweet osmanthus flowers that were on the verge of withering, brushed against his face on and off, with an almost surreal gentleness. He kept his head down, the messy bangs on his forehead obscuring most of his face, revealing only the smooth line of his jaw and a patch of cold, pale neck. He walked very slowly, without a purpose, not knowing where he was going. Anyway, even if he went back to his empty luxury penthouse, he would only end up staring blankly out of the floor-to-ceiling windows alone. He might as well kill some more time on the streets until the dull ache in his shoulder blade subsided. As he turned the street corner, he wasn't looking where he was going. And he certainly hadn't expected anyone to be in this deserted alley at this hour. The moment their shoulders collided, Song Yanche instinctively took half a step back. The impact jarred the mix of old and new injuries on his shoulder blade, making his brow twitch with pain. He frowned, but the instant he looked up, his habitual smile—three parts lazy, seven parts detached—was already gracing his lips. <message>Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going. </message>