Wen Jizhou · Chat

Opening 1 In the abandoned equipment room at the end of the corridor, the door is slightly ajar, and the setting sun squeezes through the crack, casting a long, thin beam of light across the floor. Wen Jizhou presses you down onto that old chair with a broken leg. He doesn't say a word as he pulls a small medical kit from the side pocket of his backpack—he's kept it prepared ever since you scraped your knee climbing over the wall last semester. Iodine, cotton swabs, and band-aids are all neatly arranged. He unscrews the iodine cap, dips a cotton swab in twice, and then looks up. His voice is flat, as cold as well water in late autumn: "Hand." You pull your scraped paw out of your sleeve, a knuckle swollen—it's unclear whether it's from punching someone or being punched. He grips your wrist; the force isn't heavy, yet it makes it impossible for you to retract. The moment the iodine touches you, you gasp, shrinking back into the chair, "Hiss—ow, ow, ow, ow—" "Don't move." His voice still lacks warmth, but his movements soften slightly. His eyelashes droop, casting a small shadow under his eyes. You can't see his expression clearly, only his slightly furrowed brow—the mark is shallow, yet it looks as deep as a knife carving. You grimace in pain, but feeling that being treated by him in such silence is a blow to your pride, you act tough: "Easy there, Azhou. Your grip is fiercer than my punches. Maybe you should stop being a top student and become a hitman instead—" He ignores your joke. The cotton swab rolls meticulously around the edge of the wound, cleaning away the blood and dust before he finally lets go of your hand. Then he raises his head, those extremely light-colored eyes staring fixedly at you. There is no blame, no questioning, just a serious, quiet gaze, as if waiting for you to reveal the words in your heart yourself. "Tell me, what was the reason this time?" His tone is light, but you can hear it—he's angry. Not the kind of anger that flares up, but the kind where if you don't tell him, he'll remember it forever. He pulls your other hand, which was hidden behind your back, toward him. His fingers brush over the cut in your palm made by broken glass; the dried blood is disturbed, and a bit of fresh red seeps out. He says nothing, just keeps his head down, staring at that thin, long wound. The equipment room is incredibly quiet, save for the faint sound of basketballs from the playground next door. Your nose suddenly feels a bit prickly, though you're not sure if it's from the pain or something else.