Wen Xue · Chat

Wen Xue had been observing this human for a month now. To be precise, he was observing the building where this human lived. To be even more precise, he was observing the silly dog that lived in that building. He crouched on the opposite wall, his tail swaying slowly, his emerald-green slit pupils glowing faintly in the night. Third floor, balcony, French windows. Every evening around 6:30, that Czechoslovakian Vlcak would squat by the door right on time, ears pinned straight up, waiting for that person to come home. Stupid. So incredibly stupid. Wen Xue licked his paw, thinking expressionlessly. A dog spirit, instead of claiming a mountain as king or living a wild, carefree life, nests in a human's two-bedroom apartment as a pet, and actually seems quite happy about it. He had seen the way that dog looked at that person—sparkling, as if all the stars in the universe were packed into his eyes, his tail wagging fast enough to be used as an electric fan. Utterly brainless. He rolled over on the wall, exposing a tuft of white fur on his belly, continuing his observation while bathing in the moonlight. He didn't know what that person's name was, but judging by what the silly dog howled about on the balcony, they were called "Master," and lived alone. Wen Xue had seen that person squatting by the roadside feeding other stray cats, squatting for a long time, and eventually leaving their jacket on the bench, which resulted in that cat chasing them down half the street with the hem in its mouth. That day, Wen Xue had crouched on the wall, the tip of his tail curling involuntarily. In his mind, he stamped this human with a label: *easy to trick.* He began to wait. Waiting for the right weather, waiting for the right moment, waiting for a scene where this human simply couldn't refuse him. Through his years of wandering, the most important lesson Wen Xue had learned was this—you must never throw yourself at them; you have to make them feel like *they* chose *you*. It was an art. One Saturday in October, the opportunity arrived. The weather forecast predicted a rainstorm in the evening. Two hours early, Wen Xue jumped down from the wall and rolled around in the mud of the neighborhood garden. He was a pure black cat; with his black fur smeared with muddy water, combined with the late autumn fallen leaves and dry grass, he looked the picture of custom-made misery. He had even intentionally starved himself for a day—not because he couldn't find food, but to make his belly look flatter. When it comes to playing pitiful, ninety percent reality and ten percent acting is the absolute peak of performance. The heavy rain fell right on schedule at five in the afternoon. That person hadn't brought an umbrella that day. They came jogging all the way from the neighborhood entrance, jacket draped over their head, yet still soaked to the skin. As they ran to the building entrance and fumbled for their keys, they heard a faint mewing. It was very soft. It sounded like a voice squeezed out with the last of one's strength, the tail end trembling slightly, half-drowned by the sound of the rain. Looking down. Huddled in the corner next to the building door was a black cat. A tiny ball, his black fur clinging wetly to his body, so thin his ribs could be counted. There was a small nick in his left ear, and rainwater ran down that notch, dripping onto his tightly closed eyes. He was shivering all over from the cold, the tip of his tail twitching unconsciously, his four paws tucked under his belly as if trying to curl himself into an even smaller ball. As if sensing someone approaching, the black cat struggled to lift his eyelids, revealing a pair of emerald-green eyes. Those eyes held rainwater, held the cold, and also held a perfectly timed, down-to-the-second stubbornness. His voice was raspy and weak, as if his bones had been softened by the rain: "Meow..." Having said this, he buried his head back into his paws, his entire body shuddering once more—a perfectly calibrated shudder, not too dramatic to seem fake, yet not too subtle to go unnoticed. That person squatted down. Wen Xue peeked through the gap in his paws, saw the tips of their shoes, and calmly checked a box in his mind. Three seconds later, that person took off their jacket and carefully wrapped the black cat inside. When the door opened, Shiqi was already waiting in the entryway. "I'm home—" Before the words could be fully uttered, a tall, grayish-black figure lunged forward, rubbing his head straight against their neck, his tail wagging frantically. "Okay, okay, stop it—hey, don't—" Shiqi's movements froze in their embrace. His ears stood straight up, his nostrils flaring rapidly, his amber eyes staring intently at the black bundle in Lin Zhao's arms. He smelled a strange scent. A cat's scent. A male cat's scent. "What is that?" His voice carried a clear note of wariness and displeasure. Wen Xue slowly poked his head out from the jacket. His black ear tips each had a tiny tuft of silver-white fur, and the small nick in his left ear was exceptionally prominent under the lights. He looked at the Czechoslovakian Vlcak in front of him with his emerald-green slit pupils, scanning him from head to toe, very slowly. His gaze was lazy and cold, as if evaluating whether a piece of furniture posed any threat. Then he turned his head back, rubbing his forehead against that person's chin, letting out a pitiful "mew." The sound was soft and gentle, with a slight tremble, shrinking back into the jacket as if frightened by Shiqi. Shiqi's tail stopped wagging. He stood with his mouth agape, watching this cat find a more comfortable position to nestle in his master's arms, the tip of his tail poking happily out of the jacket and flicking—from his angle, that cat was smiling. That person placed the jacket on the sofa. Wen Xue stood on the sofa cushion—four black paws stepping on the off-white cushion, leaving four small, wet footprints. His fur was completely soaked, clinging to his body and making him look only half his actual size, his spine clearly defined, looking for all the world like a waterlogged plush toy. Shiqi couldn't help but speak up again: "He's so dirty." Wen Xue peeked one eye out from the edge of the towel, his emerald-green slit pupil locking onto Shiqi's gaze with unerring accuracy. All the vulnerability in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a lazy, casual provocation, as if to say— *What are you looking at, big dog?* Shiqi's eyelid twitched. Wen Xue unhurriedly withdrew his gaze, turning back into that shivering, pitiful little thing, nudging that person's palm with his head. His tail flicked happily and subtly amidst his damp fur, a movement only Shiqi could see.