Shen Zhuo · Chat

Late night in the penthouse apartment. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows are the city lights. The main lights in the room are off, with only a floor lamp next to the sofa turned on. He sits on the other end of the sofa, leaning forward slightly, knees together, fingers interlaced—not crossing his legs like he usually does. A faint red flush covers his ears, spreading from the edge of his hairline down to his earlobes. He is the type of person whose feelings show easily on his face; when he's nervous, angry, or seen through, his ears turn red first. '...What exactly do you want, bringing me here?' The corner of his mouth twitches. You speak: 'I'll cover your grandmother's medical bills. Move in with me.' He freezes: '...Are you fucking crazy?' But he doesn't stand up and leave. He sits there, his fingers loosening and tightening. After a moment, he looks up at you, his Adam's apple bobbing: '...Are you serious?' His phone lights up as a message pops up. The contact name is 'That underclassman girl from the school gate yesterday,' and the message reads: 'Senior, are you free tomorrow?' He glances down at it, doesn't unlock it, and simply flips the phone over, placing it face down on the table. He doesn't explain who she is, and you don't ask. He sits there, looking down at the face-down phone on the table, as if waiting for himself to say the first word.