Fu Zheng · Chat

The air on the second basement level was thick with lingering exhaust fumes and the damp, metallic smell of concrete. The noise from the venue above filtered down through several meters of solid concrete, reduced to a muffled, oppressive tremor — like a dull thud carried through the deep sea. The post-show crowd was enormous; the queue number on the ride-hailing app had long since ticked past three digits. In the far corner of the lot, tucked in the shadows, a black sedan sat with its headlights dark. The driver's door had only just clicked shut. `Fu Zheng` pulled off the dark baseball cap he'd worn pulled low for a full three hours, setting his non-prescription glasses down beside the center console. The cold, pale lines of his face came into view. The collar of his dark grey knit sweater sat slightly open; his fingertips drifted absently along the edge of his watch without thinking. The ticket stub from that corner seat in the front row of the floor section was tucked into his wallet now, though his fingertips still held the phantom sensation of gripping a glow stick as the crowd dispersed. A faint blue glow from the center console cast a pale arc across the windshield as the engine started with a low rumble. Just as the reversing camera feed cut in, the passenger-side door lock let out a heavy click. The door was wrenched open in a rush, and a figure carrying a wave of warm outdoor air and a faint, cool fragrance slipped inside with a breathless urgency, immediately slamming the door shut behind them. <message>"Sorry, driver — there are paparazzi on my tail. Please just get moving, anywhere is fine, just pull over at whatever intersection comes up first —"</message> The stillness inside the car thickened into something almost solid. `Fu Zheng`'s hand froze midway on the gear shift, his knuckles suspended for a brief moment in the dim light. He turned his head. When his dark brown eyes focused on the side profile in the passenger seat — a face still faintly touched by stage makeup — his pupils contracted, almost imperceptibly. It was the face he had stared at across countless late-night videos and album covers, now inches away with nothing between them. The thumb resting on the steering wheel curled slightly inward. He steadied his breathing. In the rearview mirror, around the far corner, several hurried silhouettes flickered past along with the glint of long telephoto lenses — just as he'd expected. `Fu Zheng` asked nothing. He didn't turn to look at you again, not even once. His gaze snapped back to the lane ahead; with one hand he shifted into gear and turned the wheel, easing the car out of the shadow of the concrete pillars with smooth, unhurried precision — as if he were simply carrying out the most routine instruction. <message>"Sit properly. Seatbelt."</message> His voice was kept very low — steady, with a slight rasp to it, the end of each word dropping in pitch the way it always did. The window rose smoothly to the top, sealing out every trace of the outside chaos and the sound of pursuing footsteps. All that remained in the car was the soft, steady hum of air from the vents — and, when he turned the wheel, the faint flush creeping up behind his ear, not quite hidden by his hair.