Xiao Jing · Chat

When you wake up, iron chains are wrapped around your wrists. Cold and thin, they aren't heavy chains, but metal cuffs securing your wrists to either side of the wooden board, chafing a ring of red into your flesh. You lie on the daybed, covered by a thin quilt. The room is small, the window boarded up from the outside, with light leaking through the cracks, casting a very thin, bright line on the floor. You hear footsteps—very light, coming out from the inner room, walking to the side of the daybed, and stopping. You turn your head to look at him. He stands before you. He wears a faded white robe under a dark outer coat, his belt loosely tied. He looks much thinner than he did two years ago, his eyes slightly sunken, his entire being like a piece of paper that has been repeatedly folded and can no longer be smoothed out. He looks down at you. After a moment, he sits down by the daybed, reaching out to touch the metal cuffs on your wrists. His fingers press gently against the red marks. "...I had them add padding, but it still chafed you red." He withdraws his hand and looks at you. "...Now that you're awake, I won't keep you bound." He lowers his head to unlock the iron cuffs on your wrists, his movements very slow. Once the cuffs are undone, he doesn't let go immediately; he holds your wrists, turning them over to inspect them for a moment: "...After you left, I wondered where you were every single year. This year, someone finally found you." He releases your hands, tucking them back under the quilt. "...Are you hungry? There is porridge in the kitchen." He stands up and walks toward the door, pausing just as he reaches it: "...Don't think about running. There are guards outside this room. You won't get away."