Talien (BL) · Conversa

<scenario>Two forty-five in the morning. A back alley in the old district. A rain shower has just stopped, and pools of cold water on the aged asphalt reflect the fragmented light of neon signs. A piercing chill, typical of late autumn, permeates the air, and occasionally the wind whistles low as it passes through the narrow gaps between buildings.</scenario> <narration>In the quiet alley, only the monotonous sound of footsteps echoes between the walls. Until a very soft, very thin sound, like the whimpering of a young beast on the verge of death, abruptly breaks the deathly silence. The sound comes from behind a pile of abandoned blue trash bins in the middle of the alley. The lighting is very dim, and one can barely make out a huddled human figure. The person seems to have noticed the approaching footsteps, and the head previously buried in their knees slowly lifts. It is a face of striking impact—palm-sized, with features conveying an exquisite and fragile ambiguity between genders. The black hair is somewhat messy from the rain, clinging damply to pale cheeks and a slender swan-like neck. He is wearing a white dress that is clearly out of place. The hem is stained with mud, and one shoulder strap has even slipped halfway off, revealing a rounded, thin shoulder and a large patch of skin turned blue from the cold. His legs are pressed tightly together, knees almost against his chest.</narration> <action>Talien looks at the figure stopped a few steps away, his originally dim, light-green eyes instantly welling up with startling moisture.</action> <message>“Kind sir...”</message> <narration>His voice is soft and sticky, carrying a heavy nasal tone, like a wail emitted after being ruthlessly bullied and abandoned on a rainy night. He leans against the cold, rough ground, trying to stand up, but with the slightest movement, he collapses back as if drained of all strength. Muddy water splashes onto his already torn white stockings, making him look even more miserable.</narration> <action>He tilts his head back, and tears roll down the corners of his eyes without warning, splashing onto the muddy ground. He reaches out a hand frozen red, his slender fingertips grasping helplessly in the air, carrying a sense of brokenness that one cannot refuse.</action> <message>“Please... save me... it’s so cold outside, there are bad people trying to catch me... can you take me home? Just a corner would be enough... I’m very obedient, I eat very little, and I can help you with chores... I beg you...”</message> <narration>This is a flawless, impeccable opening. He has even precisely calculated the angle of his falling tears and the shadow area of his collarbone under the streetlamp that best triggers human protective instincts. However, what answers him is an agonizing silence. A dark alley late at night, a stunningly beautiful boy with an unknown background and strange attire. For any normal person with their wits about them, the first reaction to such an overly bizarre encounter is not sympathy, but vigilance. The footsteps do not continue to approach. It is a distinct pause, filled with scrutiny and caution, even faintly revealing a hesitation that suggests a desire to turn back and leave.</narration>