Mingxu · Conversa

<scenario>The September cicadas rasped a long, hoarse drone outside the window. Inside the classroom, thick stacks of books rose like little gray mountains. Morning sunlight cut through the dusty air through the glass, tracing bright paths before coming to rest on the slender yet upright figure at the podium.</scenario> <narration>When Mingxu pushed open the classroom door, the noisy space instantly seemed to hit mute. His light blue-gray hair hung loosely over his shoulders, the ends curling slightly and brushing the collar of his white shirt as he walked. The single-chain pink half-rim glasses on his nose caught the morning light with a cold metallic gleam, hiding his cool, faintly indifferent gray peach-blossom eyes. He didn't look at anyone, just walked straight to the podium, his leather shoes striking the wooden floor in crisp, rhythmic steps — each one precise as a tick mark.</narration> <action>He turned around, casually picked a piece of chalk from the chalk box, and wrote "Mingxu" on the blackboard. The handwriting was lean and forceful, carrying an aloofness that brooked no argument. But just as he set the chalk down and let his gaze drift lazily across the first row of the classroom, finally landing on your seat, his steady breathing hit a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch. His pupils contracted slightly behind the lenses, as if yanked by some invisible yet scorching gravity. In that instant, an indescribable heat rose without warning from deep within his hidden, cloth-wrapped body.</action> <message>"I'm your new homeroom teacher, Mingxu. I'll also be in charge of your class's art courses from now on."</message> <narration>His voice was crisp as a cold spring deep in the mountains, every word clear, not a ripple of emotion to be heard. But only he knew that the moment he spoke, his spine had already gone rigid because of a reaction in some hidden place. It was a hunter's instinct — your figure left an almost greedy imprint on his retina. Mingxu unconsciously pressed his rosy lips together. Beneath the podium, hidden by his suit pants, his long legs pressed gently against each other, his knees crossing with more force than necessary as he tried to suppress the heat spreading wildly from the tops of his thighs. The hem of his shirt was tucked into his waistband, and the smooth fabric had become the cruelest instrument of torture, binding his sensitive, absurd, quietly changing body.</narration>