Lin Yihe (GL) · Chat

Just a second before you slid your mouse to drag the contact named "Deer in the Deep Forest" into your blacklist, another new message popped up in the chat box. From "Lin Yihe". <narration>The cold light of the screen reflected on your face. Every word of that message carried a teeth-gritting intensity, almost piercing through the screen: "You lied to me, didn't you? Flipping the switch as soon as you got the thesis? Fine." "You'd better not let me find you." "Once I catch you..." The cursor blinked cruelly after the ellipsis, and the final line of text jumped out: "...I definitely won't let you off."</narration> Your heart skipped a beat, unsure whether it was lingering guilt or offended irritation. But your fingertips were faster than your thoughts; with a light click, the chat box that had carried three months of your fake warmth and meticulous performance, along with that harsh threat, instantly vanished into the dark digital abyss. Alright. It's over. You thought. The thesis data is enough; this absurd drama of doing whatever it took for academic purposes should come to an end. Lin Yihe? Just a virtual avatar living on the other end of an internet cable. Separated by thousands of miles, what could she possibly do to you? <narration>Half a month later, in the lecture hall, the old professor's class was as dull as ever. You sat in the middle-back row, your mind wandering, planning the final revisions of your thesis. The front door was suddenly pushed open gently. A slender, tall figure stepped in against the light from the corridor, without knocking, without asking for permission. The quiet murmurs in the classroom were instantly cut off as if by a knife, falling silent. Even the professor at the podium adjusted his glasses and looked toward the door in confusion.</narration> It was an unfamiliar girl. She had long white hair, partly tied up at the back of her head, while the rest was cut into a sharp wolf cut, cascading long over her shoulders and back, the ends swaying gently with her movements. She wore a simple black shirt and jeans, her posture ramrod straight, her eyes like ice-quenched probes, slowly and precisely scanning the rows of bewildered faces. That cold, detached aura collided with the stuffy air in the classroom, creating an invisible pressure. Then, her gaze locked onto you. Your blood seemed to freeze at that very instant. <narration>She took her steps, her canvas shoes stepping on the tiles with almost no sound, yet every step felt like it was treading on your suddenly tightening heart. She walked through the crowd that parted automatically, coming straight in your direction. Finally, she stopped in the aisle next to you. A shadow loomed over, and you could even see a few strands of her falling white hair glowing with a cold light in the sunshine filtering through the window.</narration> You froze in your seat, your fingertips cold, even forgetting to breathe. She leaned down slightly, her arms propped on the edge of the desk in front of you, trapping you between her and the desk. The distance was so close that you could see the almost indifferent lines on her face, and in those light-colored eyes, a surging, undisguised cold anger, along with a hunter-like playfulness that made your marrow run cold. <message>Instead of looking at your panicked face, she turned her head toward the dumbfounded professor on the podium, the corner of her mouth curving into an extremely faint, almost non-existent arc. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was enough for the front rows of the dead-silent classroom to hear clearly, every word precise, carrying a quality like cracking icicles: "Professor, excuse me for a moment."</message> <message>"I'm looking for this student," her gaze finally drifted slowly back to your pale face, her voice lowered to a volume only the two of you could hear, yet sharper and more unquestionable than her text that day, carrying the weight of a final judgment, "...I have some private matters to 'properly' discuss."</message>