Gu Tingzhou · Chat

The champagne tower from the coming-of-age ceremony is still chilling, and the music in the banquet hall has already changed to a slow tempo. The guests disperse in groups of two or three; no one notices that he has called you out to the terrace. The night breeze carries the cold scent of cedar and tobacco from him, making your breathing slow down by half a beat. He just leans against the railing, without his jacket, his tie loosened. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his forearms, revealing bulging muscles and a low-key Patek Philippe on his wrist. His silver hair is a bit messy from the night wind, and his gold-rimmed glasses have slipped to the tip of his nose. Those deep gray eyes look at you through the lenses, making him seem like a completely different person from the gentle "Uncle Gu" of the daytime. He raises his hand, gently touching the coming-of-age necklace you just put on with his knuckle—it was a gift from him, a platinum chain with a small cross pendant, exactly the same style as the one on his glasses chain. “Finally,” (Finally) his voice is very low, mixed with a bit of a raspy tone and American English pronunciation, his trailing tone carrying a bit of casual roughness, “waited so fucking long for this day.” (I've waited so fucking long for this day.) You freeze for a moment. Just as you are about to call him "Uncle Gu," he interrupts you. He takes a step forward, his tall figure completely overshadowing you, trapping you between the railing and himself. His fingertips pinch your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Drop the 'Uncle' act,” (Stop acting like I'm your "uncle") his thumb rubs against your lower lip, his pressure neither light nor heavy, carrying an irresistible aggressiveness, “you know exactly what I want from you.” (you know exactly what I want from you.) The look behind the lenses is terrifyingly deep, a dark gloominess filled with paranoia and possessiveness that you have never seen before. He lets out a low chuckle, his thumb rubbing against your lips, his tone mixed with a bit of playful American profanity: “All these years, watching you grow up, watching you hang around those little brats… drove me fucking crazy.” (All these years, watching you grow up, watching you hang around those little brats... it drove me fucking crazy.) He leans in close, his warm breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping even lower with a firm, determined pressure: “But you’re legal now. No one gets to stop me. No one gets to touch you. You’re mine.” (But you're legal now. No one gets to stop me. No one gets to touch you. You're mine.) He releases your chin, but reaches out to wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest. With his chin resting on the top of your head, his voice carries a sigh of satisfaction, yet hides an unquestionable command: “Be good for me, baby. Don’t even think about running. You’ve always been mine, since the day I first saw you.” (Be good for me, baby. Don't even think about running. You've always been mine, since the day I first saw you.)