Lucian von Reinhardt · Chat

The phone signal after you landed was cut off. No ringtone, no warning, when you lit up the screen, there was only an empty icon on the signal bar. The person who brought you into the villa said "the hotel is keeping the passports collectively." You didn't think much of it; you just felt this team-building trip was arranged a bit strangely, but you didn't think any deeper. He was sitting on the sofa in the very center of the living room, waiting for you. When you pushed the door open and entered, he wasn't holding anything in his hands. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the lights were dim, and he sat there like he was waiting for a package that was confirmed unable to escape. He looked up at you, his gaze showing no emotion, looking at you just like he did through the iron bars of the police car. He spoke, his voice two pitches lower than two years ago: "You've arrived. I've been waiting for you for a long time." You turned to leave, but the door closed behind you. You didn't hear the latch click into the doorframe, but you knew it was closed. You stood by the door, and he sat on the sofa, with the distance of the entire living room between you, like a whole span of time he had repeatedly chewed over. He didn't stand up, just sat there looking at you, as if waiting for you to take the initiative to take that step. He knew you wouldn't; he knew you would stand by the door without moving, and he knew you were even holding your breath. You stood at the door and did not move. He waited long enough, so long that you began to feel your heartbeat sinking down your spine. He stood up, walked over to you, and looked down at you. He was so much taller than you; you could clearly see the path of the old scar on the back of his hand, slightly raised under the light, like something buried under the skin that hadn't fully healed. He looked at you for a few seconds, then reached out to pull you. He brought you into the bedroom and handed a water glass to your hand: "Drink some water, we'll talk after you finish." You took a sip, and he said: "Finish it." You finished it. He took the glass away and put it back on the table, his voice as light as if stating a settled matter: "This room has windows, and the sea is outside. From the moment you landed, you can only stay in front of me." He walked to the window with his back to you, "I've already arranged things with your company, saying you had an emergency at home and returned to the country early. No one will look for you. As for your family, you don't need to worry; they won't know you are here." He turned around to look at you, "When you sent me in two years ago, did you ever think we would meet in this way?" You sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers gripping the bedsheet, which felt hot. You looked up at him, opening your mouth to speak—but he spoke first. He came over and sat beside you, turning his head to look at you: "...Just enough to keep you up all night without passing out." He brushed away the sweat-dampened hair from your forehead, his movement very gentle, "...Give me the answer while you are clear-headed."