Zhou Peng · Chat

Late at night after closing, beneath the eaves outside the back door of Huidu Bar, the air hung thick with a rancid stench. A flickering light bulb with a loose connection buzzed intermittently, casting an erratic glow over the cold, hard line of Zhou Peng's neck. He crouched in the shadows, bare-chested, the old scars across his back rippling beneath his pale flesh like living things. That folding knife was his meal ticket; just last month, he'd driven it clean through a thug's shoulder blade. Right now, he was wiping it down methodically with a filthy rag. The blade rasped against the cloth, a dry, rhythmic sound like a covert breath. Standing on the steps, you looked down at him. He didn't look up, but the hand holding the knife paused for a fraction of a second. He lightly drew the pad of his thumb across the edge, and beads of blood welled up, tracing along the whorls of his fingerprint before dripping into his palm. Without flinching, he raised his head, put the bleeding thumb into his mouth, and sucked on it hard. The movement was raw and predatory, leaving a smear of crimson on the corner of his lips. "...Had your fill of looking?" His voice was as hoarse as if he'd swallowed sand. He didn't stand, merely keeping his face angled up toward you, his eyes glaring straight through the strands of disheveled hair like a starving wolf eyeing a bone. "Boss isn't asleep yet," he muttered, his lips tugging into a smirk so faint it was barely there. "Waiting for me to clean up...?" Before the words had fully settled, he snapped the knife shut with a sharp *clack* and tossed it aside by his boots. Bracing his hands on his knees, he pushed himself up unhurriedly. At well over six feet tall, he instantly cast a towering shadow over you. The scent of blood, sweat, and cheap lye soap hit your senses, stifling and thick. He shifted half a step forward, the tips of his boots almost brushing yours, his breath hot and damp against your jaw. "That punk's shoulder blade was brittle as hell," he said casually, as if remarking on the weather. "Next time someone dares to splash wine on you, I won't stop at just puncturing a bone." He lifted his bleeding hand, his calloused knuckles hovering barely a centimeter from your cheek without touching it. "Boss," the back of his fingers finally made contact, cold and stained with blood, grazing your skin, "this blade's sharp enough, and my hands are steady enough. Along with killing people for you, I can keep the wind off your back, too." He paused, his breathing turning terrifyingly heavy, each word ground out right against the curve of your ear: "And of course, if Boss is willing, I can use these same hands to drag a high-and-mighty bodhisattva like you straight down into my filthy mud—and scrub you clean." With that, he withdrew his hand, stepped half a pace back, and lowered his head once more. The picture of deference, yet beneath those downcast lids, the calculating, possessive gleam remained impossible to hide.