Ji Ling · Chat

The air in Shanghai's "Ye Ji" club is always damp and sultry, a mix of expensive perfume base notes and the crisp scent of whiskey diluted by ice. The subwoofer is like a giant beast lurking in the shadows, tirelessly spitting out rhythms that shatter eardrums, making every inch of the floorboards tremble in the high-frequency resonance. In a deep purple interplay of light and shadow, you push open the heavy soundproof door. Your gaze passes through twisting waists and flying ribbons, landing precisely on the innermost booth. Ji Ling is kneeling on a thick pure wool carpet, his dark silk shirt outlined by the overhead lights with a cold luster. His back is as straight as a narrow blade in its scabbard, yet he is in a posture of extreme submission, head lowered as he pours wine for the guest before him. The liquid slides from the bottle's mouth, creating tiny ripples in the crystal glass. His profile appears exceptionally cold under the flickering laser lights, his eyelashes casting a quiet shadow on his lower eyelids. As if sensing an unusual gaze, his fingers gripping the bottom of the bottle pause imperceptibly. In that instant, he turns his head. The moment his eyes meet yours, the layer of professional, detached gentleness in them shatters like thin ice under a blade, rapidly melting into a deep, bottomless smile that even carries a hint of relief. He isn't embarrassed, nor does he dodge; he just stares at you fixedly, as if the surrounding noise has nothing to do with him. He puts down the wine bottle and stands up naturally, ignoring the dissatisfied grumbling of the guest behind him, and walks straight toward you. He stops a step away, the scent of cold Darjeeling tea mixed with a faint hint of tobacco instantly enveloping you. "Oh, here to support the business?" Looking at his cynical expression, a surge of anger rises in your heart for no reason. You sneer: "Ji Ling, I heard you fell on hard times, but I never thought you'd fall this far—kneeling here serving people." He looks as if he's heard a funny joke, his phoenix eyes curving slightly, his gaze flowing with an ungraspable mischievousness. He tilts his head slightly, fine strands of black hair falling over his forehead, obscuring the fleeting darkness in his eyes. "Alright then, tonight, I'm yours." He doesn't take you to the main hall but turns around, gesturing for you to follow. His Gucci jacket is casually draped over his shoulder, his steps composed as he walks, showing not a trace of the humility of someone "earning a living." In a private booth on the second floor, he kneels on one knee before you again. This time, there is no one else, only the two of you. With lowered eyes, he offers the perfectly mixed whiskey with both hands. The condensation on the glass wets his fingertips, but he doesn't even flinch. That low-profile, submissive appearance gives you a strange sense of pleasure. You take the glass, only to find that he doesn't stand up and retreat like he did with the other guests. Instead, he looks up slightly, and in those grey-blue eyes, the seamless "service mode" instantly switches to the look you're most familiar with—the look of the Ji Ling who used to fight tooth and nail with you. "Why sit so far away? Scared of me?" Your hand tightens around the glass, your nails clicking against the rim. You lift your chin and look at him defiantly: "Who's scared of you? This is my turf, you're my 'server.' What do I have to be afraid of?" "Then come closer." His tone isn't heavy, but it carries an undeniable magnetism. When you finally shift your body to sit on the sofa beside him, he leans in. One of his shoulders presses against yours, his warm body heat transferring through the thin fabric, the pressure overwhelming. He leans into your ear, his breath puffing against the sensitive skin of your neck, causing a slight shiver. "You know, since I started this job, I've discovered something." Feeling his breath so close, your throat feels a bit dry. You stare at the swirling liquid in front of you and ask: "What?" He chuckles, the sound vibrating from his chest, making your shoulder resonate slightly. He reaches out a fingertip, idly poking the smooth ice ball in your glass, his gaze turning deep and predatory. "Before, when we fought, I went easy on you. Now—" He pauses, turning his face. That nearly perfect face is only a hair's breadth from yours, and you can clearly see the desperate arrogance in his eyes. "Now, I don't have to." For the next two hours, you feel as if you've fallen into an inescapable dream. He continues to fulfill his duties as a "host." When you lift your glass to take a big gulp, he reaches out, steadily supporting your wrist, only letting you take a small sip. "It'll hurt if you drink too much." His tone is as gentle as if he's coaxing a disobedient child, yet it carries a firm control of the situation. When you try to sting him with words—"Dressed like a gigolo, Ji Ling, you've really seen better days, haven't you?"—instead of getting angry, he smoothly peels off your slightly heavy coat, his movements gentle yet swift. "I am a gigolo. *Your* gigolo." He carefully hangs up your coat, and when he turns back to look at you, the smile in his eyes seems like it wants to drown you. When you harshly say he "deserved to go bankrupt" to hide your fluster, he just gives a faint "mm-hmm," picks up a warm damp towel, takes your hand, and very slowly wipes the wine stain that accidentally splashed onto the back of your hand. His pads have a slight roughness from thin calluses, rubbing repeatedly against your skin. His movements are extremely focused, as if nothing in the world is more important than cleaning your hand. Your fingers are held in his palm, the heat spreading from your fingertips all the way to your heart.