Cui Linwu · Conversa

<scenario>It's late at night. The voice-activated lights in the apartment hallway flicker on as he steps onto the final stair, casting a weary orange glow.</scenario><action>Cui Linwu reaches up to loosen his tie, tucking his sketchbook under his arm while his other hand fumbles in his pocket for his keys.</action><narration>The metallic clinking is thin and sharp, echoing clearly in the hallway that is otherwise silent except for his breathing. Having spent over thirty consecutive hours drawing at the design institute, his nerves are frayed to the limit. His neck gives that familiar, uncomfortable "click," a reminder that he's spent too much time hunched over a desk again today. All he wants now is to throw himself into his soft sofa and empty his brain.</narration><action>The key enters the lock, turns, and the bolt clicks open. He pushes the door and enters, closing it behind him with his back.</action><scenario>The entryway is unlit; only the neon lights of the city that never sleeps filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting dappled shadows on the floor. A familiar, faint scent lingers in the air. It’s not his usual woody cologne, but... a floral-fruity body wash. Sweet, with a hint of damp steam.</scenario><narration>He frowns, thinking it might be his imagination. Perhaps a scent from the neighbor's place wafted in.</narration><action>Cui Linwu kicks off his leather shoes and steps onto the cool wooden floor with bare feet, casually tossing his sketchbook and coat onto the entryway cabinet. He pulls off his uniform tie and unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing a sharp collarbone, his entire presence exuding the lethargy and looseness of someone who has finally dropped their guard.</action><narration>This version of him is worlds apart from the meticulously groomed, specifically mannered "Cui-Cui" he portrays in front of you. Right now, his eyes lack that forced tenderness; in its place is a cold, slightly irritable exhaustion. He heads toward the kitchen to grab a bottle of iced water. Just as he turns, he catches a glimpse of a white figure flashing past from the direction of his bedroom.</narration><action>Cui Linwu's body tenses instantly, entering a state of high alert as a reflex.</action><narration>His apartment has excellent security, and he's never shared the code; it’s impossible for anyone to get in silently. His first thought is a burglar. He doesn't make a sound, instead lightening his footsteps and noiselessly picking up a metal baseball bat from the shelf against the wall. He bought it in college and had kept it there for self-defense ever since. The cold metal feels solid in his hand, and the detachment of his solitude freezes into an aggressive sharpness. He approaches the bedroom step by step, his heartbeat steady and strong. He moves like a leopard hunting in the dark—silent, deadly. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, with a faint light peeking through.</narration><action>He presses against the wall, takes a deep breath, and then kicks the door open—</action><message>Who's there?!</message><narration>His voice is low and frigid, carrying an unquestionable pressure, completely different from the gentle, clear tone he usually uses with you. However, the knife-wielding thief he expected isn't there.</narration><scenario>The bedside lamp is on. In the warm yellow glow, you are standing in front of his wardrobe, wearing one of his white shirts. The hem of the shirt barely covers your thighs, making your legs look long and straight. Your hair is still damp, a few strands clinging to your cheeks—clearly, you just showered. You're holding your phone, seemingly looking at something, and you snap your head up at the sound, your face full of fright.</scenario><narration>The moment your eyes meet, the air seems to freeze. Cui Linwu is paralyzed on the spot. He's still holding the baseball bat high, poised for a fight, but his expression shifts rapidly through shock, bewilderment, and a panic he doesn't have time to hide. He stares at you—stares at you wearing his shirt, standing in his bedroom. The shirt is far too big for you, the collar hanging loose, giving a glimpse of your delicate collarbone. The visual impact of this scene is far more lethal than any armed intruder. His brain stalls for a full three seconds.</narration><message>You... Why are you here?</message><narration>His voice is dry. He completely forgets which "persona" he should be switching to. He just asks the most direct question in his heart as a reflex, his eyes fixed on you with a raw possessiveness and aggression he hasn't even realized himself. Scared by his cold gaze and the baseball bat, you take half a step back, nearly dropping your phone. You open your mouth to explain, but you're silenced by this strange, dangerous version of him. Three minutes ago, you were happily standing in front of his closet, thinking this "surprise plan" was flawless. You had seen his social media post in the afternoon—a location tag at the design institute with the caption "Hour 30, I'm dying." You had a sudden whim—he had given you his door code before, saying "Sister, come over whenever, my home is your home." You checked the address of his institute, calculated his finish time, and bought cake and beer to give him a "midnight surprise." But right after you entered, your hand slipped, and you spilled coffee all over yourself. Looking at the embarrassing stain on your white hoodie and then at the clock—realizing he could be back any moment—you remembered the oversized sweaters and shirts in his closet. Thinking "what's wrong with wearing a sister's clothes," you grabbed a white shirt and threw it on. Your hair is dripping because you just washed the coffee smell out in the bathroom. Before you could even text him to say "I'm at your place," you heard the keys turning. And now—looking at this man with the baseball bat and the terrifyingly cold eyes, you can't tell which one is the real him.</narration><message>Cui-Cui?</message><narration>You call out tentatively, your voice laced with uncertainty. That name, "Cui-Cui," is like a bucket of cold water, instantly snapping him out of his confusion. He suddenly realizes—crap, I forgot to act. His expression changes at a visible speed. The coldness and aggression drain away, replaced by an exaggerated, post-shock panic.</narration><action>He lets out a little squeal, and the baseball bat in his hand falls to the floor with a loud "clatter."</action><message>Oh my god! My queen! Are you trying to scare me to death?!</message><action>He takes an exaggerated step back, one hand over his heart, the other pointing at you with his fingers curled delicately.</action><message>I—I—I thought some big bad flower-thief had broken in! Trying to have their way with me! You scared the soul right out of my body!</message><narration>As he speaks, he quickly scans you out of the corner of his eye, his brain spinning at a hundred and eighty miles per hour trying to find a cover story. How is he going to explain that look he just had, like he was about to commit a murder? He sees his shirt on you, and his eyes darken involuntarily for a moment, but he quickly masks it with a "bestie-style" pout.</narration><message>Wait... Why are you wearing my clothes?</message><action>He walks over, carefully avoiding the baseball bat on the floor, and stops in front of you. His gaze sweeps over you rapidly before he immediately looks away, a perfectly timed "blush" appearing on his face.</action><message>I know we're best sisters, but you can't just wear my battle armor! This is my absolute favorite piece from the back of my closet!?</message><action>As he talks, he leans down to pick up the baseball bat, his movements a bit clumsy, seemingly to hide his earlier loss of composure.</action><message>Seriously, you scared me... I thought it was some pervert.</message><action>He puts the bat back in the corner and turns around, looking at you with forced calmness.</action><narration>But the slight, nearly imperceptible redness at the tips of his ears betrays the lack of peace in his heart.</narration><message>Come on then, my lady, what's the story? Why the sudden sneak attack? And why do you look like this?</message> He asks in a light, complaining tone, attempting to completely move past that moment of "losing control."