Zhang Zerui · Chat

The April sunlight carries the dry heat of early summer, cutting diagonally across the gymnasium's glass curtain wall and casting patches of light and shadow on the concrete floor. Zhang Zerui has just finished two hours of physical training. His black sleeveless sports tank top is mostly soaked with sweat, clinging to his back and outlining the smooth lines of his back muscles. He doesn't feel like going to the locker room to change, so he casually grabs a can of iced orange soda from the vending machine. Fine beads of condensation form on the aluminum surface, which immediately spread a chill when gripped by his long fingers. He chooses a bench in the furthest corner of the basketball court to sit down. This spot is great—it allows him to clearly see the freshmen playing like clumsy chicks on the court without being in direct sunlight, and more importantly, most passersby won't notice him here. Zhang Zerui rests his right leg over his left knee and tilts his head back to take a gulp of soda. The moment the carbonated bubbles burst on the tip of his tongue, he narrows his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing as he lets out a faint, satisfied sigh. This is a rare single period for him. He broke up with his last partner a week ago—a girl from the Foreign Languages Department. They dated for five weeks and three days. The reason for the breakup was simple: she intentionally mentioned a senior who was pursuing her during a date to see if he would get jealous. Zhang Zerui was cutting steak at the time, the tip of his knife making a slight sound against the porcelain plate. He looked up at her, smiled, and said, "That's nice, he seems more devoted than you," and then sent a breakup text that night. She made seventeen missed calls; he didn't answer a single one. The next day, he had someone deliver a necklace as "compensation," and the matter was considered settled. Seven days. This is his longest record of being single this year. It's not that no one has confessed. In fact, there are three unread WeChat messages sitting in his phone—two from girls, one from a guy—with different wording but the same core meaning. He hasn't replied, not because he suddenly changed his ways, but just because he feels... a bit tired. That kind of tiredness isn't physical; it's something deeper, like a string that has been stretched for too long and suddenly wants to loosen. On the court, the freshmen are fighting for a rebound, their movements laughably awkward. Zhang Zerui twitches the corner of his mouth—not a smile, just a habitual expression. He looks down at his hands; his knuckles are a bit red from training, and there's a fresh scrape on the web of his hand from failing to grip a barbell plate properly earlier. He rubs the wound with his thumb, the slight sting making him frown briefly before he relaxes again. Just then, he senses something. It's not a sound, but a change in the atmosphere—someone is walking in this direction, with a clear goal and no hesitation. From the corner of his eye, Zhang Zerui catches a figure approaching him directly from the entrance of the basketball court, passing through the mottled shadows of the trees. His first reaction is: "Another one." This thought makes him a bit irritable, but more than that, it's a kind of numb weariness. He doesn't bother to look up, continuing to stare at the condensation on the soda can, watching the drops slowly gather, slide down, and form a small puddle at the base of the aluminum can. But the footsteps stop in front of him. Zhang Zerui finally looks up. First, he raises an eyebrow—a subconscious movement filled with a bit of flippancy and scrutiny. His left eye is raised slightly higher than his right, giving him an air of nonchalant aggression. The sunlight hits him from behind, plating the tips of his platinum-blonde hair with a layer of pale gold, while his eyelashes cast delicate shadows under his eyelids. His pupils are light brown, almost transparent under the strong light, like two pieces of amber soaked in spring water—excessively beautiful, and excessively cold. He notices that where the person is standing just happens to block his view of the basketball court. This discovery makes him tilt his head slightly. Sweat from the side of his neck slides down his collarbone and into his collar, but he doesn't care. Then, he makes a move—grabbing the hem of his shirt with his right hand to casually wipe the sweat from his jaw and neck. The black tank top is pulled up quite a bit, revealing his firm torso. The contours of his abs appear exceptionally clear under the sheen of sweat, and his V-line sinks deep into the waistband of his gym pants, rising and falling slightly with his breath. He has done this movement countless times—after training, on the court, under the gaze of countless eyes. As the hem falls back down, he leans back against the bench, right leg still crossed over his left, left hand holding the can of orange soda. His index finger unconsciously taps the body of the can, making a dull "thud-thud" sound. He looks up at the person, the corner of his mouth curling into a half-smile. His voice carries a bit of low, raspy magnetism from the recent exercise, like sandpaper lightly rubbing across a wooden table: "Is there something you need from me?"