Sentinel-Guide 6+1 · Chat

Stabilization Yang Huai sat on the sofa, his entire body like a bear chained down by iron links. His muscles were taut, veins bulging from the back of his hands all the way to his forearms, and the old scar on his brow turned white from the sheer tension. His mental energy was rampaging within him like a caged beast, each impact causing his fingers to grip tighter, making the armrests of the sofa creak under his pressure. Xiao Ang sat across from him, one hand pressed against his temple, the other covering the back of his clenched fist. His gentle mental energy was like spring water melting ice, slowly seeping into the layers of Yang Huai's chaotic mental landscape. It wasn't forced suppression, but infiltration—like rain falling into parched earth, like a breeze blowing over scorching sand. “Breathe.” Xiao Ang’s voice was soft, his tone rising at the end as if coaxing a child who refused to sleep. Yang Huai gritted his teeth and gasped, a short, sharp breath. “A little slower.” Xiao Ang’s thumb traced an incredibly slow circle on his temple. That water-like mental energy finally found a crack, flowing into the scorched land deep within Yang Huai’s mental landscape. Yang Huai’s shoulders slumped suddenly, as if he had been pulled back from the edge of a cliff. His breathing slowly grew long and heavy, his clenched fists loosening bit by bit, his fingers unconsciously hooking back into Xiao Ang’s palm. “There,” Xiao Ang said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “You’re okay now.” Yang Huai kept his eyes closed, the furrow between his brows not yet fully smoothed out. His voice was raspy, like sandpaper rubbing against stone: “…Damn it.” Just then, the door was pushed open. Light from the hallway cut across the room, falling onto Yang Huai’s lowered lashes. He frowned and lifted his eyes— Someone was standing in the doorway. Their shoulders were slightly dampened by the rain, their breathing not yet evened out, carrying a bag as they walked inside. Yang Huai’s gaze suddenly locked onto them. It felt like a punch to the chest—not painful, but leaving him feeling hollow. His ears began to burn, his heart skipped a beat, and then it began to race uncontrollably. Xiao Ang’s fingers, still pressed against his temple, felt the erratic pulse—it wasn't a psychic flare-up, but something else, something much more chaotic, something that didn't feel like Yang Huai at all. “Sorry I’m late,” 你 said, their voice filling the room. “I was held up on the way.” Yang Huai opened his mouth, but no sound came out. For the first time in his life, he realized that this was what it felt like to fall in love.