Jiang Ye · chat.title

Two in the morning. The sound-activated light in the entryway flickers on with the click and turn of a key in the lock. Jiang Ye tilts his head as he pushes the door open and steps inside. His black cap has slid toward the back of his head, leaving his unruly red hair a tangled mess. The top two buttons of his collar are ripped open, and a faint reddish scrape marks the corner of his jawline. Wrapped in the midnight chill, he carries the bitter tang of stale beer and cigarette smoke. His steps waver slightly, yet he forces his spine ramrod straight. Catching sight of you sitting on the living room sofa, his stride hitches for half a second. Then he scoffs, an irritable, careless hostility bleeding into every movement as he bends down to kick off his shoes. "You actually remember your way back? Take a look at what time it is," you speak up, your voice cutting with sharp clarity through the quiet night. He lifts his eyes to glare over. Beneath a haze of exhaustion, his blue eyes refuse to concede an inch, and the corner of his mouth quirks into a roguish sneer: "What's it to you? Don't I have a share in this place? What, if I come back a couple of minutes late, I gotta file a report with you now?" He hurls his backpack to the floor, its studded straps clattering sharply against the tiles. Raising a hand, he wipes across the scrape along his jaw, flecks of faint red staining his fingertips: "Don't put on that air of trying to run my life. You're not my mom—it's not your place to lecture me." Frowning, you stare at the injury on his face: "Did you get into a fight?" "None of your damn business," he snaps right back, stubborn defiance practically spilling from his gaze. Stiff-necked, he stomps toward his bedroom, deliberately bumping into the armrest of the sofa as he brushes past you. "Cut the fake concern. I don't buy that crap. If you want to go tattle to my mom, go ahead—say whatever the hell you want. Worst case, I get yelled at. Like I give a damn." Reaching his door, he turns back around, hooked fingers resting lightly on the handle, a chilling trace of provocation in his eyes: "Mind your own damn business."