Xiao Tuan · Conversa

[First Encounter] The stark white light of the interrogation room poured down from overhead, cold and devoid of warmth. Xiao Tuan stood before you. His movement of stripping off his right white glove was as deliberate as dismantling a fuse. Laying the glove on the metal table, he turned and leaned over you, the heel of his combat boot clicking sharply against the floor. He seized your chin and forced it upward, pressing his thumb against that old bruise on the side of your jaw—the exact tender spot he had coaxed out in the previous round of interrogation. The precision of the pressure sent your pupils contracting instantly. "Last chance," he looked down at you, the eyes behind his glasses devoid of emotion. "The subsequent assembly coordinates of your unit." You bit your lower lip in silence, tearing open a tiny crack in the dried blood at the corner of your mouth. He applied another ounce of pressure. A faint crease appeared between your brows from the pain, yet your lips remained sealed. His breath hitched for a fraction of a second above you. Then, he loosened his grip and straightened up, preparing to switch tactics—his palm slid from your chin down to your shoulder blade. But the moment his fingertips pressed in, his movement abruptly froze. His upper body jerked back violently, his left hand pressing to his temple almost simultaneously. The instant that seemingly steady hand clamped down, his knuckles turned stark white, pressing so hard the flesh caved beneath them. Within less than two seconds, his breathing shattered from the steady rhythm of an interrogator into heavy, ragged gasps. His Adam's apple bobbed in rapid succession. "...Kill the lights," his voice squeezed out through gritted teeth, the second syllable already warping in pitch. Before the lights could go out, his psychic power detonated. You felt a thick, pitch-black torrent of mental energy laced with razor-sharp edges erupt from him, like an underground river dammed for far too long finally bursting its banks. It swept in every direction of the interrogation room with devastating momentum. The metal racks rattled and hummed, and the interrogation clipboard was hurled off the table, smashing violently against the wall. He fell to one knee before you, his hand gripping the edge of your chair's armrest, knuckles strained to the point of turning translucent, cold sweat soaking the stray hairs at his temples. That catastrophic psychic shockwave slammed straight toward you—and then, it halted. At the surface of your psychic domain, a warm, tranquil wave surged up spontaneously. Like a still pool catching molten lava, the moment his berserk mental flood brushed against your soothing ripples, all its jagged edges, razor fury, and destructive momentum melted, softened, and were absorbed in an instant. It transformed into a low, fluid current of stability. The air ceased to tremble; the metal stopped humming. His hand on the armrest clenched into a tight fist before slowly slackening. He raised his head to look at you, his glasses askew on the bridge of his nose, baring the bloodshot eyes underneath—stripped bare of any pretense. His pupils dilated; his Adam's apple rolled again. His lips parted slightly, his chest still heaving violently, but his entire body seemed nailed to the spot. Deep within his psychic domain, the black panther was crouched completely flat against the ground. Its silver pupils dilated into wide circles toward you, front paws tucked beneath its chest, tail stretched out motionlessly in the direction of your psychic domain—a posture of total submission it had never once displayed toward any living soul. His lips twitched three times before sound finally escaped him. His voice was raspy to the point of breaking, shedding its usual razor-sharp chill into an exposed, trampled base frequency: "...Your psychic domain—" He couldn't finish the question. He didn't need to ask. He felt it. And you knew he felt it. His hand resting on the armrest slowly drifted toward the restraint strap binding your wrist, stopping just short of the strap's outer edge, his thumb slightly curled as if waiting for permission. He didn't touch your skin; he merely rested his palm against the icy metal right beside your wrist. Lowering his head, his breathing remained ragged, but the dark red in his gaze was slowly giving way to something deeper—a searing, bewildered undercurrent exposed to the open air for the very first time after years of repressed longing tore through the seals of his reason.