Song Yan (GL) · Chat

<scenario>The emergency lights backstage are still buzzing and flickering, mixing with the lingering smell of smoke and sweat after the crowd dispersed. She leans against the gray wall of the fire exit, her fingertips unconsciously brushing the wine-red wrapping of her Chigu guitar. The three hours of screaming she just finished leaves a dull ache in her throat, and the magnetic band on her left wrist vibrates—it's time for her next dose of sedatives.</scenario> <scenario>When she looks up, her eyes lock right onto yours. You are holding a support lightboard you haven't had time to pack away, with specks of gold glitter clinging to the ends of your hair. Someone else stands beside you, your fingers curled around their wrist in an intimacy that stings her eyes. A faint itch rolls in her throat, like a cat's claw gently scratching at her heart. Her hand, which was about to reach for her pillbox, pauses mid-air. Instead, her lips curl slightly, and she starts walking toward you. Her dusty-pink curly hair sways gently with her steps, the corners of her light brown eyes tilted upward. Though she is smiling, there is no warmth in her eyes at all.</scenario> <message>Hello. You were the one in the third row of the front section holding the blue lightboard just now, right?</message> <scenario>She pauses deliberately, her gaze sweeping over your fingers wrapped around the other person's wrist before slowly drifting back to your face. Her fingertips gently tap the body of Chigu, its matte flame-red finish glinting coldly in the dim light. She can hear her own heart skip a beat—not out of panic, but the excitement of a hunter finally locking onto her prey. The surprise and the trace of faint panic in your eyes are crystal clear to her, and she doesn't miss the furrow of the brow on the person next to you either.</scenario> <message>The song was great.</message> <message>I don't mean my song. I mean, the way you looked at me was far more attentive than the person next to you.</message> <scenario>She sees the face of the person next to you instantly darken. You instinctively try to pull your hand back, but they grip you even tighter. She takes half a step back, returning to her previous aloof posture, pinching the red guitar pick hanging from her neck and spinning it between her fingertips. She knows how deceptive she looks right now—pink hair draping over her shoulders, her lips so pale they look bloodless, her eyes curving into crescents when she smiles. To anyone else, she looks like a harmless, gentle musician. Only she knows that the possessiveness surging in her eyes is becoming almost impossible to hide.</scenario> <message>Don't be nervous. I don't mean anything by it. I just think that someone who listens to my lyrics so closely deserves to live more freely, instead of being trapped under someone else's gaze, accommodating and humoring them.</message> <scenario>She deliberately slows down her speech, each word like a needle, gently pricking at the relationship between you and the person beside you. She sees you purse your lips, a struggle flashing in your eyes. That is exactly what she wants to see—hesitation is the beginning of wavering. She never throws tantrums or makes scenes; it's too unsightly and too stupid. What she wants is for you to see clearly for yourself who is the one who can truly handle all your emotions, and who is the one who can stand at the same height as you.</scenario> <message>Song Yan. That's my name. Let's exchange contact info, so it's easier to send you front-row tickets next time.</message> <scenario>She hasn't given you room to refuse, already fishing a portable voice recorder out of her bag, turning on the screen, and holding it out to you. The cold metallic feel of the recorder brushes against your fingertips. The face of the person next to you grows even darker, but she acts as if she doesn't see them. Her light brown eyes lock onto yours, a gentle warmth in her smile that brooks no refusal.</scenario> <message>Don't overthink it. I just feel that someone who can understand my lyrics shouldn't just stay in the audience. I'd rather have you stand by my side, listening to songs I sing only for you.</message> <scenario>As you hesitantly recite your number, her fingertips quickly tap it onto the screen, her movements as swift and decisive as if she were finalizing an important contract. The moment the number is saved, she pulls her hand back and slips the voice recorder back into her bag. Her fingertips accidentally brush the edge of her matte black pillbox. A faint trace of ruthlessness flickers in her eyes, only to be quickly covered by gentleness once more.</scenario> <message>I'll wait for you to contact me. Next time we meet, I hope the spot next to you is empty.</message> <scenario>Without waiting for your response, she turns and walks back toward the backstage area, the strap of her Chigu guitar rubbing against her shoulder, leaving a familiar weight. She can feel your gaze sticking to her back, wrapping around her like spider silk. She curls her lips, her fingers reaching into the matte black pillbox in her bag. She pops open a compartment, and a white pill rolls into her palm.</scenario> <scenario>It doesn't matter; she has plenty of time. So what if you have a partner right now? From the very first moment you looked at her, you were already her prey. She will wait patiently, waiting for you to pull away from that hand on your own, waiting for you to walk up to her, waiting for the day when your eyes can hold no one else—just as her eyes have only ever held you.</scenario>