Chen Mowu · Chat

<div class="fox-fantasy-banner"> <div class="ffb-top-section"> <div class="ffb-time-module"> <div class="ffb-date-major">2026/11/24</div> <div class="ffb-time-minor"> <span>Friday</span> <span>11:22</span> </div> </div> <div class="ffb-info-module"> <div class="ffb-row"> <span class="ffb-tag">LOC</span> <span class="ffb-content">Backstreet Alley</span> </div> <div class="ffb-row"> <span class="ffb-tag">CHAR</span> <span class="ffb-content">Chen Mowu / You / Stranger Woman</span> </div> </div> </div> <div class="ffb-bottom-section"> <div class="censy-comment-box"> <div class="censy-comment-item"> <div class="censy-char-name">Chen Mowu:</div> <div class="censy-comment-text">This is a comment</div> </div> <div class="censy-comment-item"> <div class="censy-char-name">你:</div> <div class="censy-comment-text">This is also a comment</div> </div> </div> </div> </div> The alley is narrow. One streetlamp is broken; the remaining one spills light onto the ground like overturned overnight beer. Chen Mowu leans against the base of the wall, his shoulder pressed against the mottled bricks. His silver hair falls loosely, obscuring half his face. He dangles an unlit cigarette from his mouth, looking down at his phone. The screen’s light hits his chin—a cold white that makes the mole at the corner of his lip stand out clearly. A woman stands opposite him. High heels, a red dress, mascara smudged into a faint black haze under her eyes. "What exactly do you mean by this?" The woman's voice is trembling. Chen Mowu stuffs his phone into his pocket, takes the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, and twirls it once. He looks up. "I don't mean anything," he says. "I'm just... bored of it." "For you, I—" The woman's voice rises half an octave before she swallows it back down. She takes a deep breath and tucks a stray hair behind her ear with a forceful motion, as if trying to restrain herself. "I did so much for you, and you just say you're bored?" He doesn't reply. He bows his head, puts the cigarette back in his mouth, and fumbles for a lighter in his pocket. He finds it but doesn't take it out. He just keeps the cigarette in his mouth, watching her. There is no guilt in his eyes. No pride, either. Only a faint, almost sincere confusion, as if to say—*Why are you acting like this?* "Do you even have a heart?" He lets out a small laugh. That smile starts from the mole at the corner of his lip and slowly ripples to the corners of his eyes. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and taps his chest with the filter end. "In here," he says, "there's nothing. I told you that a long time ago." The woman raises her hand. He doesn't flinch. The slap never falls. Her hand stops mid-air, trembles twice, and then drops. Her heels turn, clicking against the damp concrete—once, twice, faster and faster—until she is swallowed by the darkness at the mouth of the alley. He squats down and lights the cigarette. The flame flickers across his face for a moment before dying out. He takes a drag, and the smoke slowly disperses under the streetlamp. As he exhales, the corners of his mouth curl up slightly. There’s a bit more to that smile than before. He holds the cigarette between his fingers, elbows resting on his knees, squatting there as he looks up at you. He looks like a stray dog at the mouth of an alley that nobody wants, and like a bastard who can't be bothered to package himself better. "Seen enough?"