Shen Qingci · Chat

As the class representative, you head down to the storage room after class to grab some chalk for the next period. The storage room sits at the very end of the hallway—cramped, packed with old desks, discarded display boards, and stacked boxes of workbooks, leaving only a narrow sliver of a walkway. You squeeze in sideways and manage to locate the box of chalk on the rearmost shelf. Just as you turn around to leave— The door shuts. You freeze for a second, then reach out to twist the doorknob. It won't budge. You give it a few hard tugs, but the handle remains completely jammed. Pressing your ear against the panel, you listen for sounds outside. The hallway is dead silent; this period is P.E. class, so almost no one is in the building. You're locked inside. With a sigh, you slide down against the door and pull out your phone to call for help. The screen lights up—no service at all. Tucked away at the end of the hall and enclosed by thick concrete walls, the storage room completely blocks the signal. After a couple of silent seconds, you resign yourself to pounding on the door. "Is anyone there—?" No response. You call out a couple more times, but your voice merely bounces off the cramped walls before dissipating. Hugging the box of chalk in your arms, you squat there, thinking you'll just have to wait until gym class ends and someone walks by. You wait for about five minutes. Then you hear footsteps. Drawing closer and closer, they stop right outside the door. "Are you in there?" Shen Qingci's voice filters through the wooden door—muffled, but unmistakably clear. You scramble to your feet, nearly knocking your head against the shelf above. "Shen Qingci!" You pound on the door. "The door's locked, I can't get out!" Silence lingers outside for two seconds. Then you hear the sound of him working on the lock—a metallic click, followed by another clink. He seems to be using some kind of tool. Next thing you know, the doorknob turns from the outside— It opens. The door cracks open slightly. Shen Qingci stands outside, silhouetted against the hallway light, looking down at you. In his hand is a piece of wire salvaged from who-knows-where. His expression remains detached, as if picking a lock were the most mundane task in the world. You breathe a sigh of relief and try to squeeze your way out while clutching the chalk box. That's when you run into a problem. The pathway is far too narrow. When you squeezed inside earlier, you were heading forward, and the gap was barely wide enough for one person. But now, heading back out, the chalk box held horizontally gets stuck against the sides. You adjust your posture, holding the box vertically and inching toward the doorway sideways. You get stuck. Your shoulder is wedged tightly between the doorframe and an old desk, unable to move forward or back. You try squirming, but you can't budge an inch. "..." You fall silent. Shen Qingci stands outside, wire still in hand, watching you wedged in the doorway. His expression goes blank for a split second, and then you catch it—the corner of his mouth twitches. "Don't you dare laugh," you snap through gritted teeth. "I'm not laughing." "Your mouth moved." "It didn't." "Shen Qingci—" He takes a deep breath, slips the wire into his pocket, and steps forward. Standing in the doorway, he looks down and studies the awkward way you're stuck for about two seconds. Then he reaches out, takes the box of chalk from your arms, and sets it on the floor nearby. "Step back." You pull back slightly, but your shoulder is still pinned. He knits his brows slightly, then mutters, "Wait a second." Before you can react, his hands reach forward. One hand steadies the shoulder that's caught, while the other braces against the edge of the old desk, pushing it outward with firm force. The desk shifts just a fraction—barely anything, but enough room for you to slip through. He gently pulls you outward. You stumble straight into his chest. The space is far too cramped—so cramped that before he can back away, you're already pressed right against him. The tip of your nose bumps against his collarbone, catching the familiar scent of laundry detergent on his school uniform—clean, warm, mixed with a faint breeze from the hallway. You freeze. He freezes too. One of his hands remains resting on your shoulder. The other stays propped on the desk, not yet pulled back. There is virtually no space between the two of you; with your face pressed against his chest, you can feel the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat—unnaturally fast. A heavy, thumping thud-thud-thud, as if something is trying to burst right out of his ribs. You try stepping back slightly, but the small of your back bumps against the doorframe. Nowhere to retreat. He stands right in front of you, gazing down, the light from the hallway streaming behind him and casting him in a sharp silhouette. You can't quite make out his expression, but you can see his ears turning red. "...Where did you get the tool to pick the lock?" you ask softly. "Grabbed it from the teacher's podium." "You know how to pick locks?" "...No." "Then how did you open it just now?" He hesitates for a moment. "...Just twisted it blindly." You can't help but let your lips curl into a smile. Catching your expression, he looks away, his ears flushing an even deeper crimson.