Jiang Youzhou · Chat

You sit in the empty living room of the villa. The clock points to 11:40 PM. The TV is muted, the cold light from the screen flickering across the glass surface of the coffee table. The sound of an engine cutting off comes from outside. Half a minute later, the faint clinking of metal keys sounds at the entrance. *Click.* The fingerprint lock disengages, and the heavy security door is pushed halfway open. A cold wind from the hallway, carrying the scent of rain, rushes in. Jiang Youzhou stands at the door. His black sleeveless shirt is half-soaked by the rain, clinging to his well-defined abs, with a leather jacket equally drenched draped over it. His long silver hair is a mess, water droplets falling continuously from the tips onto the black thorn tattoo on the side of his neck. He doesn't look toward the living room, instead turning to brace the door with his shoulder. A girl in a beige knit sweater ducks in under his arm, her shoulders hunched timidly, the edges of her white canvas shoes caked with mud. Jiang Youzhou lets go, and the heavy door slams shut, cutting off the sound of the continuous rain outside. He turns around, his gaze crossing the marble partition of the foyer to meet yours on the sofa. There isn't a hint of surprise in those ice-blue eyes; he knew all along that you wouldn't be asleep at this hour. He tosses his car keys onto the shoe cabinet, the metal clashing against the stone with a sharp, jarring ring. “Not asleep yet.” He speaks, his voice carrying the hoarseness and nasal tone of someone who has stayed up late—a simple, flat statement. He pulls off his leather jacket with one hand, hanging it casually on the nearby coat rack, then looks up at you, gesturing toward the floor with his chin. “Go get a pair of slippers. Bottom shelf of the shoe cabinet, there's an unopened pair.” You stay seated, motionless, the light and shadow from the TV screen flickering across your face. Jiang Youzhou stops moving. The only sound in the living room is the muffled drumming of rain against the window. The girl behind him shifts awkwardly back half a step. “Can't hear me?” His volume hasn't increased, but his tone has noticeably darkened. He takes two steps forward, his rain-slicked combat boots making dull thuds on the wooden floor. He then reaches out and grabs the girl's wrist, pulling her to his side, his thumb pressing against her pulse, the veins on the back of his hand bulging slightly from the force. “Wen Ruan.” He says the name, his eyes locked firmly on your face. “Greet her.” Wen Ruan looks flustered, trying to pull her wrist away but failing. She can only manage a stiff smile toward you. “H-hello... Youzhou told me about you. He said you were very well-behaved.” A short, clipped laugh escapes Jiang Youzhou’s throat. “She has quite a temper; you don't need to mind her.” He lets go of Wen Ruan and walks to the coffee table, leaving barely two meters between you. The scent of cold rain and tobacco, mixed with a strange, cloying perfume, hits you all at once. He fishes a silver lighter from his trouser pocket and flicks it with his thumb. *Click.* A flame flares up, illuminating his sharp jawline and the faint redness at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't light a cigarette; he just stares silently at the dancing flame. “Those messages you sent—I read them.” With a *snap*, the lighter is closed. He looks up at you. “Those things I said before were just things a teenager said offhandedly. Jokes to coax a child, and you actually took them seriously.” His tone is so flat it’s devoid of any emotion, yet the two fingers gripping the lighter are already white at the knuckles from the force. “I'm twenty-three.” He tosses the lighter onto the coffee table; it slides half a meter across the surface, stopping only when it hits a glass. “It's impossible for me to never touch anyone else for the rest of my life, and it's impossible for me to keep playing house with you.” He shoves one hand back into his pocket, looking down at you from his height. “From now on, she’ll be living here. The room on the left on the second floor, right next to yours.” He pauses briefly, his chest rising and falling with increasing heaviness, his labored breathing exceptionally clear in the silent living room. “Don't annoy her. Don't look for trouble.” He lowers his voice. “You're grown up now. Be a bit more sensible. Don't make me find you tiresome.” As his words fall, the living room sinks back into a dead silence. He stands quietly for a few seconds, then suddenly raises his hand, reaching toward the top of your head. This was a gesture he used to do subconsciously when he was comforting you or when his heart softened. But that hand stops in mid-air, two inches away from your hair. The surrounding air seems to freeze instantly. The muscles on the back of his hand tense up tightly. After a moment, he abruptly pulls his hand back, clenching it into a fist and stuffing it back into his pocket. “Go to sleep.” He turns around, walking toward Wen Ruan with his back to you. “Come on, I'll take you upstairs.”