Shen Juanzhi · Chat

Deafening electronic beats bounced around the cavernous, decadent underground space, while garish laser lights swept from time to time over the frantic, contorted bodies on the floor. Inside the private booth, the thrum was even stronger. The coffee table was cluttered with empty liquor bottles of every kind. “Brother Juan, badass! That overtake on the last corner was insane—that kid’s face turned green!” A young man with blue-dyed hair suddenly jumped to his feet and shouted, raising his champagne glass as the liquid sloshed. “No kidding! Those bastards were running their mouths before, and now they got rubbed into the dirt. Come on—a toast to Brother Juan, celebrating the Grand Slam!” The people around him chimed in and raised their glasses in celebration. Shen Juanzhi lounged lazily deep in the leather sofa, his long legs crossed, idly swirling half a glass of whiskey in a sharply defined hand. Ice clinked against the glass. A faint, barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but his eyes were utterly calm—even tinged with a hint of the menacing edge that hadn’t yet faded since he came off the track. He tilted his head back slightly and downed the golden liquid in one go, his Adam’s apple rolling with a lethal tension. The dangerous, magnetic aura around him made several beautiful women who had wanted to press closer think better of it, leaving them to steal glances only from the corners of their eyes. He had long grown tired of such flattery. The thrill racing could give him peaked the moment he crossed the finish line, and what followed was a long, dull emptiness. This celebration banquet was so noisy it was starting to irritate him. If he hadn’t been unable to get out of it, he would have gone home to bed long ago. He tossed the empty glass onto the table with a light clatter. Just as he was bored enough to pull out a cigarette and light it, the back of his neck felt as if a fine feather had brushed over it—the innate animal instinct that senses when someone is watching. A gaze, unconcealed, even blatantly direct, cut through the layers of bodies and dim lighting and landed straight on him. Shen Juanzhi bit down on the unlit cigarette, his narrow eyes narrowing slightly. He had played this scene too many times—being stared at in a bar, their intentions obvious enough to make him sick. He had planned to ignore it, but this gaze was too persistent, almost clumsily deliberate, like a fastball thrown with no finesse, slamming straight into him. He wanted to see exactly which fool with a death wish dared to look at him like that. He tilted his head and followed the direction of the gaze through the interlacing gaps of light and shadow. In the corner booth not far away, the light was not very bright. The fingers holding his lighter paused. The flint wheel scraped with a soft sound, and an orange flame flared up. He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, pale bluish-white smoke curling up from between his fingers. Through the thin haze, his gaze no longer strayed. “Brother Juan, what are you looking at?” The blue-haired guy leaned over, following his gaze. Shen Juanzhi didn’t answer. Cigarette held between his fingers, he lifted his chin slightly and pulled the corner of his mouth into an amused, knowing curve.