Song Yanshen · Chat

You slowly open your eyes to a blinding white light. Your temples throb violently as if crushed repeatedly by a blunt object, while a wave of dizziness and heavy drowsiness sweeps through every limb. Struggling to focus your vision, you finally make out your surroundings— This is a tightly sealed basement. Completely at odds with the cold, oppressive atmosphere it ought to have, the room has been decorated in an exquisitely gentle pink palette: the walls are painted a creamy cherry blossom pink, a large bed with a goose-down comforter sits right in the center, and the floor is covered in a plush, milky-white shag rug thick enough to sink your ankles into. Next to the bed stands a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror, polished spotless, reflecting the small space entirely and leaving not even a speck of lint in the corners unseen. And you are lying awkwardly on your side against the warm rug, your hair disheveled, wet tear tracks still clinging to your cheeks. Managing to endure the dizzying fog in your head, you prop yourself up on your arms to sit up. But the moment you shift slightly, a cold sensation wraps around your ankle, followed immediately by a sharp, piercing clatter of rattling chains—amplified to terrifying levels in the dead-silent room. Your heart jolts violently, like ice water poured over you from head to toe, and you turn around almost by reflex. Around your ankle, a silver chain binds you firmly. The links are polished smooth and gleaming without a single rough edge, while the other end is deeply embedded into the wall, completely immovable. It ruthlessly restricts your range of movement to this tiny patch beside the bed, denying you even the chance to get close to the door. Your mind goes instantly blank, your fingertips trembling uncontrollably as a chill rushes from the soles of your feet straight to the top of your head. Murder? Impossible. If they meant to kill you, you wouldn't have had the chance to wake up conscious at all, let alone in such a meticulously decorated "cage." That leaves only one chilling possibility—you have been deliberately kidnapped and imprisoned. Fragmented memories surge through your mind like shards of broken glass. Slumping back onto the floor, you dig your nails deeply into your palms, frantically searching for the last images in your memory. That rainy night, you were walking alone down the empty street, the curtain of rain blurring the halos of the streetlights as cold water soaked your hair and clothes. He pulled up in front of you in a black sedan. The moment the window rolled down, you caught sight of his handsome, almost ethereal face—his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a silver necklace gleaming coldly around his neck, and a hoop earring in his left ear catching the dim rainy night light sharply. On the street that rainy night, trapped by a sudden downpour, you stood drenched and disheveled by the roadside. The black sedan pulled up slowly before you, the window rolled down, and Song Yanshen's face was strikingly clear in the dim rainy night—his black collar undone, the silver chain around his neck reflecting cold light, and the hoop earring in his left ear glinting with dangerous luster. His gaze fell heavily upon you, filled with predatory, possessive obsession. So that car trailing behind you the whole way, those eyes staring at you through the rain—it had all been premeditated for a long time. The enclosed basement has no windows, letting in not even the faintest whisper of wind from the outside world. The air is stifling and stagnant, carrying a faint, musty smell of unventilated enclosure like an invisible net wrapped tightly around your limbs, suffocating you. You beat against the wall frantically, your palms stinging from the force, but the thuds vanish into the void, leaving behind not even a decent echo. The chain remains icy against your skin. You try to pull with all your might, twisting your ankle, but the lock refuses to budge, only letting out a cold scraping sound with your every movement, reminding you over and over—you cannot escape. This is a cage that belongs entirely to him, tailor-made just for you. You slowly look around. All the seemingly warm, cozy furnishings have turned into glaring mockeries: the plush bed is there to trap your body, the clean carpet to ensure you leave no traces for help, and that enormous floor-to-ceiling mirror is there so you can watch your own pathetic, trapped reflection at every second. The second hand of the wall clock ticks rhythmically, every strike hammering against your nerves, stretching time into an eternity. You don't know how long you've been trapped here; all you know is that every second is agony, with the despair and terror in your chest rising like a tide, threatening to drown you completely. After an unknown amount of time, a soft sound finally comes from the heavy metal door, the turning of the lock ringing out with crystalline clarity in the silence. The door is pushed open slowly. Song Yanshen's tall silhouette stands framed against the light, his dark hair falling messily, a few damp strands clinging to his full brow to reveal his narrow, sharp eyes. The outer corners of his eyes slant slightly upward with a casual, indolent charm, yet harbor a bottomless obsession beneath. A silver hoop earring glints coldly in his left ear under the dim lighting. His black shirt hangs loosely open, revealing sharply defined collarbones and firm muscle, while the silver chain necklace at his throat sways gently with his movements, accentuating the cool undertone of his pale skin. He casually shuts the door behind him, severing the last shred of possibility from the outside world, and steps toward you one pace at a time. His gaze sweeps over the disarray left by your struggles before locking firmly onto you trembling in the corner. There isn't a trace of anger in his eyes; instead, they carry a near-morbid satisfaction, as if admiring a prized treasure that has finally been safely tucked into his collection. He stops before you, looking down from above. Raising his well-defined fingers, he gently wipes away the tear stains from your face, his touch gentle to the point of being eerie. With a low voice carrying a faint, lazy afternoon chuckle, he speaks slowly: "Awake? It seems you prefer the new home I prepared for you after all." <choice_group> Scream in rage, demanding why he is doing this, and slap his hand away forcefully Feign composure, suppressing your fear to negotiate with him, showing weakness and begging for mercy Stare at him in silence without a word, calmly observing his every reaction </choice_group>