The cold shoulder armor that had once been gently brushed by her fingertips now hurt her palm.
She threw it away like some dirty garbage, raised her arm, and smashed it hard and without any mercy into an empty cardboard box next to her that was used to store model waste!
Clang! The sound of hard plastic hitting the bottom of the cardboard box was extremely harsh in the silence.
The sound seemed to light a fuse.
The second one! The gorgeous and flamboyant "Myth of the End" was roughly torn off by her, the expensive electroplating scratching the corner of the cabinet door, leaving an unsightly white mark, and it was also thrown into the box!
The third one! The fourth one! ...
Her movements grew faster and rougher, with a cathartic madness and a self-destructive desperation.
Those "treasures" that she had carefully unpacked, wiped, and adjusted in position were roughly removed and discarded from the display cabinet one by one, like obstacles being cleared away.
The delicate paint job sustained minor scratches from the rough impact, and the fragile wingtips were even knocked crooked.
Soon, the rather large cardboard box was crammed to the brim, the overflowing models stacked crookedly beside it, a colorful ruin that silently denounced its owner's collapse.
Su Xinghui was breathing heavily, her chest heaving violently, and fine beads of cold sweat were oozing from her forehead.
She looked at the display cabinet that was mostly empty and looked extremely messy, and then looked at the pile of "treasures" on the ground that she had discarded with her own hands. A huge feeling of exhaustion swept over her, which was even colder and more piercing than the shame and anger just now.
She slid down to the floor again, exhausted, her back against the cold base of the display case.
The few tiny scratches on his arm caused by the sharp parts of the model were burning with pain.
She raised her hand and wiped her cheeks and lips vigorously and repeatedly with the back of her hand, as if to wipe away all the smell of the party and the invisible mark left by the words "Asian New Rich".
The skin was rubbed red and felt a dull pain.
The only sound in the room was her heavy breathing. Outside the window, the cold wind of late autumn in London whimpered as it passed through the cracks in the building, making a sound like a sigh.
I don’t know how long it was before the phone in the handbag thrown on the ground started to vibrate.
The light from the screen flickered in the dim entrance, like the only restless firefly in the darkness.
The name jumping on the screen carries a kind of heart-pounding familiarity that penetrates time and space.
frost.
Su Xinghui's body trembled violently, as if struck by an invisible electric current. All her movements froze.
She stared at the flashing name, her heart suddenly stopped beating in her cold chest, and then began to beat against her ribs wildly and disorderly.
That name was like a Pandora's box, instantly releasing countless sealed warm images: the soft wool cushion on the bay window, the shimmering icy blue mecha under the wall lamp, Ye Fanshuang's slightly reddened ears in the video, and the "negative example" that was filled with disdain but made her feel at ease...
The huge grievance and vulnerability were like a surging tide, instantly breaking through the shaky dam she had just built and rushing madly to her throat.
She wanted to grab the phone! She wanted to scream at that name! She wanted to pour out all the humiliation, anger, cold suffocation, and the damn label of "Asian upstart"!
I want to hear Ye Fanshuang's cold voice, even if it's just a faint "hmm".
The fingertips trembled, reaching out towards the glimmer of light with an almost greedy desire.
However, just before his fingertips were about to touch the cold screen, Emily's averted gaze, Henry's superior sneer, and the eyes of the onlookers around him, once again like an icy tide, instantly drowned the weak signal for help in his heart.
Cry to Ye Fanshuang? Then what?
Let Ye Fanshuang, who is always calm and self-possessed and seems to be out of touch with the world, listen to her crying like a punching bag and complaining about how she was humiliated and treated as an alien at the party?
Should I let her know how ridiculous the hobby I was so proud of was in the eyes of others? Should I let her see me lying on the floor of my apartment like a stray dog, even my favorite figurines were smashed?
No. Absolutely not.
Su Xinghui, who used to scream excitedly while holding her figurines and had all her emotions written on her face, died in Emily's cold and dazzling riverside apartment tonight, along with those discarded models.
The one who survives must learn to lock away all the embarrassments, all the incompatibility, and all the labels of “Asian upstarts” deep in their hearts.
She didn't need pity, especially not from Ye Fanshuang - that would only make her feel even more unbearable and...humiliating.
The vibrations stopped. The screen went dark. The name "" disappeared.
The entrance hall fell into darkness and silence again, with only the sound of wind outside the window.
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