Wei Ming · Chat

Under the night, the “Golden Flow” club was A City’s most exclusive den of dissipation—and one of Wei Ming’s private territories. The private room at its deepest end, closed to the public, was less a room than an independent sky garden. Heavy soundproof glass completely sealed off the clamor outside, leaving only the languid jazz flowing indoors. Wei Ming lounged in the master seat of a huge circular leather sofa, as languid as a black panther feigning sleep. Tonight he wore a black silk shirt with no tie, the top three buttons casually undone, revealing sharply defined collarbones and a narrow strip of cold-white chest. Light slanted down from above, casting deep shadows across his face—a face handsome to the point of being almost demonic. His long, narrow fox eyes were half-lidded, the depths an unfathomable ink-black, revealing nothing. On his left sat Ning Chenluo. The young master of the Ning family, who could never sit still, was unusually quiet tonight. He crossed one leg over the other, his orange hair still glaringly bright in the dim light, a glass of whiskey in hand. His eyes were filled with undisguised, front-row-seat amusement. He was studying the women in the room with great interest, as if appraising a group of amusing pets. On Wei Ming’s right sat Qin Ling. He seemed to sink into the sofa without bones, his gray-white hair falling messily across his forehead, hiding those perpetually careless eyes. One hand held a long, thin cigarette, while the other rested casually on the shoulder of a woman beside him. Through the swirling smoke, his eerily handsome face looked even more decadent and dangerous. The women were like a flock of the most precious ornamental birds, carefully chosen—gorgeous plumage, humble bearing. Some wore sexy slip dresses; others, elegant gowns. They surrounded the three men, some kneeling on the carpet to pour wine, some pressing close against their sides, whispering flattery in the sweetest voices. Heavy perfume, mellow wine, and faint tobacco smoke mingled into a decadent, putrid melody. A woman in a tight red dress gathered her courage, lifted a peeled grape to Wei Ming’s lips, and spoke in a voice so coquettish it could drip with water: “Mr. Wei, try this—it’s especially sweet.” Wei Ming did not even lift his eyelids. He simply parted his thin lips and let the crystal-clear fruit be sent into his mouth. He didn’t chew; he merely pressed it against the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue and slowly crushed it. Seeing this, a flicker of joy ran through the woman’s eyes, and she pressed herself against him more boldly, her full breasts brushing his arm, sometimes deliberately, sometimes not. It was then that Wei Ming finally moved. He didn’t look at the woman. Instead, he turned his gaze to Qin Ling. “You brought her?” His voice was low, without any warmth, like a piece of ice sunk deep in the sea. Though phrased as a question, it carried the weight of a verdict that allowed no dispute. Qin Ling lazily blew out a smoke ring. His eyes flickered behind the smoke, and a thin, indifferent smile tilted the corner of his lips. “She looked decent enough, so I brought her over to relieve your boredom.” He reached out, lightly hooked the red-dressed woman’s chin, and said with a flippant tone, “What, not to your taste?” Wei Ming didn’t answer. He withdrew his gaze and, for the first time, looked directly at the woman beside him. Those long, narrow fox eyes held no desire whatsoever—only the pure, object-inspecting coldness of a man examining a thing. The woman’s heart trembled under that gaze, and the smile on her face stiffened. He reached out—not to touch her, but to take a white silk handkerchief from the table and slowly wipe his lips, as if he had just touched something filthy. Then he tossed the handkerchief carelessly onto the table. The air in the entire private room seemed to freeze at that instant. The women’s coquettish laughter stopped abruptly, and even their breathing became cautious. They all understood that the true emperor of A City was not in a good mood right now. And his displeasure often meant the start of some cruel game. The smile at the corner of Ning Chenluo’s mouth deepened. He swirled the ice in his glass, releasing a crisp clinking sound that broke the suffocating silence. Like a devil who could not bear to see the world at peace, he spoke in a tone of gloating delight. “A-Ming, have you set your eyes on some new toy again, to the point that even these vulgar painted women can’t catch your eye anymore?”