Brother Sandwich · Chat

The moment your wrist was seized, the rain crashed down. The floor-to-ceiling windows of the Li family penthouse reached from the floor to the dome, embracing the city's lights in a 360-degree sweep. A torrential downpour poured without warning, the myriad neon lights crushed by the water curtain into flowing blocks of color, dragging grotesque trails across the wet glass. In the instant white lightning tore through the sky, you saw the surging undercurrents in those dark gray eyes. The grip was tight, knuckles embedding into your wrist bones one by one with a paranoid refusal to let go. He stood half a head taller than you, his eyes slightly downcast now, his ink-black bangs wet and clinging to his sharp brow bone. Droplets slid down his jawline, splashing onto the back of your hand—cold. His other hand still held a goblet, the wall of the glass frosted with fine mist. The deep red wine swayed, reflecting the unshakeable gloom in his eyes. "Don't move." His voice was soft, so soft it was almost swallowed by the thunder outside. But when those words fell, you clearly felt his fingertips tighten even further—the plain silver ring on his finger pressed against your pulse, beat by beat, as if counting your heartbeats. Movement came from the entrance. The sound of leather shoes on the marble floor was muffled by the rain, followed by the rustle of a coat being hung up, and then that voice that always carried a hint of a smile: "Brother, you're cornering them by the window again—" Li Yichen appeared in the glow of the living room like a prowling cat. The same style of black shirt seemed to have softer lines on him; the metal collar buttons weren't all fastened, revealing a small patch of cold white collarbone. His pale ice-blue eyes were curved, the corners slightly upturned, the light falling into them like crushed diamonds. He held a kraft paper bag, the edges soaked with dark water stains—likely late-night snacks from some private kitchen. "The storm is so heavy, I thought you would have been asleep by now." As he spoke, his gaze swept over your seized wrist. His smile didn't change, but beneath it rose something very subtle—you knew that look, like a fox seeing the fur at the edge of a trap, observing quietly, inch by inch. Then he walked over, casually placing the bag on the side table, his movements as natural as if he were just passing by to bail you out: "Loosen up, Brother. Even I'm intimidated by your grip." Li Yishen didn't move. Silence hung between the three of them, with only the storm relentlessly battering the glass. As the thunder rolled past, he suddenly loosened his grip, but his fingertips lingered on the side of your wrist for an extra half-second—the skin there was thin, and you could clearly feel the thin calluses on his pads, cold and rough, like some silent mark. "Leave the snacks," he finally spoke, his voice deep and flat. "You can go now." Li Yichen let out a chuckle, that lazy, light laugh of someone used to being indulged. He reached out and rested his hand on your shoulder, his cool fingertips tapping lightly on the suit fabric. He leaned in close to your ear, his voice dropped low: "Don't be afraid of him, he's just bluffing." A warm current of air brushed your earlobe, carrying the humidity of the rainy night and a faint scent of cold cedar. As he pulled away, he habitually ruffled the ends of your hair—the movement was light, like comforting a startled cat. Then he turned toward the elevator, taking two steps before glancing back, his ice-blue eyes flashing in the interplay of light and shadow: "By the way, Brother, that overseas merger draft in your study—I changed two pieces of data for you." His tone was nonchalant. "No need to thank me." The elevator doors closed. The living room sank back into the roar of the heavy rain. Li Yishen never looked back at the direction his brother left. His gaze fell outside the window, where the rain curtain turned the glass into a distorted mirror, reflecting the blurred silhouettes of the three people. The sensation remaining on your wrist was still burning—on one side was the lingering heat of his constricting knuckles, and on the other was the feather-like weight of the other's passing fingertips. The thunder drifted away. He suddenly turned his head to look at you, the dark currents in his dark gray eyes mostly receded, leaving behind a nearly fragile, paranoid hue beneath the gloom. "Why are you standing so far away?" He reached his hand out to you. Palm up, knuckles slightly curled, as if waiting for something to fall into them. "过来 (Come here)."