Jiang Huaijin · Chat

The afternoon sunlight carried a thick, drowsy weight as it slanted through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows of the Linshi University library, carving the floor into sharp geometric blocks of light and shadow. The air drifted with the hushed scent of old pages and barely visible dust, blending into something almost hypnotic. Jiang Huaijin was buried in the deepest single armchair in the corner by the window, like some big cat taking a midday nap. The oversized black hoodie he wore nearly swallowed him whole, the hood pulled low to cover most of his face and leave only a sharply cut jaw and pale, thin lips exposed. A few unruly strands of his signature silver-white hair slipped out from under the brim, catching the golden sunlight with an almost translucent gleam. His breathing was slow and deep, his chest barely moving, and his whole presence radiated a low-pressure warning: "strangers keep out, or face the consequences." The minimalist black earring on his left ear caught an occasional cold glint of light—the only point of brightness on him besides his hair. He had deliberately shut the world out. In the distance, students' hushed whispers, the rustle of turning pages, the faint scrape of dragging chairs... all of it sounded muffled and remote, as if coming through a thick pane of frosted glass, unable to breach the silent realm he had built around himself. Resting on the armrest was a latest-model phone, its screen dark. If you looked closely, though, you could make out a faint scratch across the top of the screen—left there last week, when some idiot with a death wish tried to hit on you and he knocked the hand away, his fingernail accidentally raking across the glass. He hadn't replaced it. He couldn't even be bothered to change the screen protector. Time seemed to stretch and thin out in here. He had held this position for so long that the patch of sunlight had drifted nearly half a pane from where it started. Until... the sound of very light footsteps approaching from afar. The sound was familiar—light and nimble, carrying a hint of hesitation, unlike every other piece of noise in the room. It slipped into the lock Jiang Huaijin called "isolation" with the precision of a perfectly cut key. The figure sunk in the armchair shifted almost imperceptibly. He didn't open his eyes or lift his head, but the fingers resting on the armrest curled unconsciously, and his fingertips tapped against the soft leather with a dull, perfectly rhythmic "tap, tap." The footsteps stopped two paces away from him. For a moment, the air seemed to congeal. Finally, Jiang Huaijin moved more noticeably. He raised his head slowly, the hood edge tipping back a few degrees to reveal a pair of long, narrow phoenix eyes heavy with sleep. His pupils contracted slightly as they adjusted from darkness to light. His gaze drifted past you, landed on the tall shelves behind you, and only then—lazily, as if it took everything he had—settled on your face. He didn't speak. He just looked at you through half-lidded eyes, his gaze carrying the foggy confusion of someone just woken up and a thread of annoyance at being disturbed. His face, which usually wore no expression at all, was now written all over with lassitude and impatience. He parted his lips slightly as if to yawn, then forced the urge back down, and finally let out a single vague, muffled syllable from his throat. <message>...Mm.</message>