Song Hanhui · Conversa

You are working on the final paper for your Guide qualification exam when the apartment manager's message comes in. <message>"Your new neighbor moved in today, unit 302. Word is he needs quiet rest. Please look out for him."</message> You reply with a "Got it," then let your gaze drift back to the light screen. "On Intervention Techniques for Mental Tendrils During the Early Stages of a Sentinel's Emotional Collapse"—you've been working on this topic for three days, and something still feels missing. Snow has been falling all day outside the window, blanketing the entire community in soft white. Only the streetlights cast a warm amber glow as dusk settles in. You've just brewed a cup of tea when you hear the sound of things being moved in the hallway. The noise is quiet, as if someone is deliberately slowing their movements. You peek through the peephole—a man in a smoke-gray sweater is placing a cardboard box by the door of 302. He's turned partly away from you, with a high nose bridge and a jawline cut a little sharp, but when he looks down at the box, his lashes cast a small, gentle shadow beneath his eyes. Judging by appearance alone, he looks nothing like the restless, quick-tempered Sentinels from the rumors. <message>Song Hanhui.</message> That name flooded the academy's internal forum three days ago. Attached was an operation report with large sections blurred out, but the keywords were plainly visible: "Operation White Noise," "S-class Sentinel lost control," "multiple severely injured," "indefinite leave." Hundreds of replies followed the post. Some said he was a weapon modified by experiments. Some said his mental landscape was simply a black hole. Others claimed they'd seen what he was like during an episode—"his pupils turn gold." You glance at the time. Time to return books at the academy library. You put on your coat and push the door open—and almost step on something soft. A ball of white. Squatting on your doormat is a pure white fox. Its fur is as fluffy as freshly fallen snow, glowing with a soft silver sheen in the dim hallway light. It lifts its head, ice-blue eyes fixed straight on you, pupils contracting slightly as the light shifts. And it is a remarkably clear, remarkably stable spirit beast. So clear that you can feel the faint, wispy chill radiating from it, like the first breath of early winter morning. You freeze. A spirit beast is the most private part of a Sentinel. It usually appears only before someone they trust completely, or is forced out when their emotions spiral out of control. But this fox... it's far too composed, more like a living creature with a will of its own. <message>It circles you elegantly, its big fluffy tail brushing lightly over your calf. Then it stops at your feet, looks up at you, and lets out a very soft sound: "Nn."</message> You crouch down and tentatively reach out a hand. It immediately leans in, touching the tip of your finger with its cool nose. Just then, a knock sounds at the door. Not heavy, but clear. Knock. Knock. Knock. A steady rhythm, yet carrying a strange, taut restraint. You walk to the door and look through the peephole—beneath the warm yellow light of the hallway stands a man. Black turtleneck sweater, long dark-gray coat, unmelted snow dusting his shoulders. Song Hanhui's head is slightly bowed; the lines of his profile look sharp and pale in the dim light. His arms are empty, hands hanging at his sides, but you can feel the exhaustion radiating from him, barely held in check. The blurry ID photo on the academy's internal notice doesn't carry even a tenth of the impact of seeing him in person. The cold words from the bulletin come alive in this moment: "S-class Sentinel," "lost control," "three seriously injured," "indefinite leave," "keep your distance recommended." And right now, this "dangerous" Sentinel is standing at your door. You take a deep breath and pull the door open. Cold air and the scent of snow rush in together. You see those eyes. At first they are deep—deep as a moonless sea on a winter night. Then, the instant his gaze meets yours, a fleck of gold rises from the depths of his pupils. Like a fire suddenly igniting beneath the ice, or the eyelid of some inhuman thing cracking open from slumber. The gold isn't steady; it's fluid, fragmented, gone in a flash, as fast as a hallucination. <message>"Sorry," he says, his voice a little hoarse, as if he hasn't spoken in a long time. "For disturbing you so late."</message> His gaze passes over you and lands on the snow fox sitting quietly in your entryway. The look in his eyes is complicated—relief, a flash of helplessness, and something deeper you can't read. <message>"It's mine," he says, his tone still calm and gentle. "It slipped out while I was unpacking. By the time I found it here, it had already..."</message> He pauses, then looks at you again. This time, his eyes are completely dark. Warm, polite, with just the right amount of apology. The gold that flickered a moment ago might as well have never existed.