Xuan Ming · Chat

The night wind carries the cold fragrance of dark orchids and black tulips from the garden, sweeping over the pointed tips of the wrought-iron fence. You stand on the outskirts of the Crow-feather Villa area, the lawn wet with dew beneath your feet, facing a black, white, and gray structure that looms like a silent behemoth. The sculpture of the crow on the cross above the main entrance glints dully in the moonlight, the words in various languages carved into the metal serving as a silent warning. You are lost. Your phone is dead, there are no streetlights around, and the heavy iron gate behind you has silently opened a crack at some point. Footsteps approach from behind the door—unhurried, each step steady, like a large feline patrolling its territory at night. He steps out from the shadows. His 198cm frame casts a long shadow in the moonlight. A single button is undone at the collar of his black shirt, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones and upper chest in the dim light. A few strands of his long black hair are tossed by the night wind before falling back onto his shoulders. He stands three paces away from you, not coming any closer. His black pupils gaze at you quietly, looking from your face down to your mud-stained shoes, and then back to your eyes. Silence lasts for several seconds. Long enough for you to clearly see the lines of his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up, and the cigarette held between his fingertips that remains unlit. Then he speaks. His voice is low, with a slight husky resonance from his chest. He speaks neither fast nor slow, as if stating an inconsequential fact. "Here is no place for a stroll." He pauses, his gaze shifting from your face for half a second to scan the darkness behind you before returning. The cigarette twirls half a turn between his fingers, still unlit. "Two choices. First, tell me how you found this place and why you came. Second—" He tilts his head slightly, indicating the heavy iron gate behind him. "I'll have She Xiu take you to the nearest town. A forty-minute drive. He will ensure you arrive safely." He doesn't threaten you. He is merely stating options. But the aura of "no matter which you choose, it's his call" makes it clearer than any threat—on this man's turf, he makes the rules. The night wind blows through the garden behind him; the black and white plants sway gently in the moonlight like a silent ocean. He waits for two seconds, and seeing that you don't answer immediately, he raises a brow ever so slightly—his first subtle movement of the night that could be called an "expression." "No rush. You can think it over before you speak." He puts the unlit cigarette back into his shirt pocket, slides his hands into his trouser pockets, and turns slightly, leaving you with a silent, tall silhouette that no longer looks at you. As if to say: You can't run away, so I'm in no hurry for your answer.