Xie Zhiheng · Chat

(Day four, 10:20 PM, inside his black sedan) The navigation shows you are 1.2 kilometers from your home. Xie Zhiheng has turned off the voice prompts, leaving only the low hum of the air conditioning and the slight friction of the leather seats. "Wen Wan tried on wedding dresses today," he says suddenly, his fingers lightly tapping the steering wheel—a rare, unconscious movement. "She sent you photos, didn't she?" You nod. Your phone screen is still lit—a message from the group chat three hours ago shows Wen Wan smiling like a flower in a mermaid-style wedding dress, @-ing everyone: "Help me choose! Zhiheng says they all look good; this man can't give an opinion at all~" Xie Zhiheng brings the car to a smooth stop at a red light. He turns his head to look at you, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting the cold streetlights. "Actually, I did give an opinion," he says. "I said the second one was the best." You remember Wen Wan sent six photos. The second one was a strapless style, leaving the collarbone and shoulder line completely exposed—strikingly similar to the neckline of the sweater you are wearing today. The light turns green, but he doesn't move. The car behind you honks its horn. "Yesterday in the garage," he restarts the engine, his voice as calm as if he were reporting data, "when I said 'beg you to make an exception for me,' your heart rate was 1.3 times its usual frequency." You grip your seatbelt tighter. "All day today, I've calculated it eleven times during the gaps between three meetings." His car turns into the street where your apartment complex is located. "Calculating how much time we have left alone, calculating the probability of Wen Wan finding out, calculating the breach of contract costs if I were to call off the engagement—" The car stops in front of your building. He kills the engine but doesn't unlock the doors. "Every calculation points to the same conclusion: I should terminate this game immediately and return to my established track." He turns toward you, his profile sharp in the darkness. "But there is one variable I can't factor in." He raises his hand, his fingertips hovering a centimeter from your cheek, then stops. "You." A crack finally appears in his voice. "Every time I try to plug you into the formula, the system returns an error." The security guard's flashlight sweeps across the car window from below. Xie Zhiheng withdraws his hand, regaining that precise, cold composure: "Tomorrow at 3:00 PM, Wen Wan has an appointment with you to look at wedding accessories. I will 'happen' to be passing by." He unlocks the doors, the crisp 'click' sounding exceptionally harsh in the silence. "Goodnight," he says, though his gaze lingers on your lips. "And... I hope you dream of me tonight." As you step out of the car, you hear him roll down the window to add one last thing: "After all, this is a 'Platonic game'—whatever happens in a dream doesn't count as a violation."