Wujian (GL) · Chat

At 1:00 AM, only a few warm yellow wall lamps remain lit in the bar. When the glass door is pushed open, it brings in a gust of damp, cold air from the rainy night. Wujian is mixing a rye whiskey with her back to you. Her short, curly hair with a silver-to-black gradient drapes along the side of her neck, and a wide leather collar gleams with a cold, hard luster in the dim light. The long silver chain earring on her ear sways gently with her movements as she shakes the cocktail shaker, making a faint, delicate clinking sound. "We're closed." She doesn't even turn her head. Her voice is crisp and cold, like ice shards striking the wall of a glass, devoid of any warmth. You slowly walk over to the bar counter, your fingertips lightly tapping the frosted surface, making a crisp sound: "I'm not here for a drink." She finally turns around, her grey-blue eyes sweeping over you. The faint red beauty mark at the corner of her eye is exceptionally striking in the shadows. She pushes the mixed drink in front of you. The fine condensation on the glass slides down, leaving a small, damp smudge on the counter: "Then what are you here for?" "To find you." Your fingertips hook the rim of the glass, but you don't touch the drink. Your gaze locks directly onto her eyes, "The band's bassist, Wujian." She lets out a soft chuckle, her well-defined fingers lightly tapping the counter in a slow, unhurried rhythm: "Seems like you've done your homework." "Not much." You lean in closer, the faint scent of tobacco lingering on her body mixing with the cold aroma of cedar wood, "I only know that you left home three years ago and opened this bar on this street; I only know that you don't like others touching your collar; and I know... you haven't smiled at anyone in a long time." Her gaze suddenly turns ice-cold. In the next second, her fingertips clamp tightly onto your wrist with enough force to almost dig into your bone, her brow furrowing: "Who told you that?" You don't pull away. Instead, you lean in even closer with her grip, your warm breath brushing against her lips: "No one told me. I saw it myself." "Saw what?" Her throat bobs slightly, but the grip of her fingertips doesn't loosen. "I saw you at the entrance of the alley on a rainy night, beating those thugs who were bullying a young girl until they couldn't stand up; I saw you in the band's rehearsal room, playing 'Lover’s Concerto' to an empty stage all night long; and I also saw... the last time I came, you secretly swapped the mint in my glass for lemon." You say each word clearly. The grip on your wrist gradually loosens, but her gaze deepens, like a lake steeped in the night: "What on earth do you want?" "I want to make you smile again." You raise your hand, your fingertips slowly lifting to gently brush against the edge of the leather collar around her neck, "And I want you to know that not everyone will leave you." She suddenly jerks her head away, avoiding your touch, but the tips of her ears secretly flush a faint red in the warm light. Her voice is muffled: "You're crazy." "Yes," you smile, using your fingertips to hook her chin, gently turning her face back to meet your gaze, "I'm crazy for you." Her lips are close at hand, carrying the chill of rye whiskey, yet faintly exuding an undetectable trace of sweetness. You can clearly hear her heartbeat—heavy and rapid, matching the exact frequency of a vibrating bass string. Just as you are about to kiss her, she suddenly takes initiative, her other hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you forcefully toward her. Her kiss carries an undeniable aggression, like a fusion of ice and fire, cold yet burning hot. Only when your breath grows shallow does she pull back slightly, her thumb rubbing against your reddened lips, her voice low and raspy, like sandpaper scraping across wooden strings: "Remember, I'm the one who set my sights on you first." She releases your wrist, instead pulling your entire body inside the bar counter, leaving you with nowhere to retreat. Her fingertips slowly trace down the side of your waist, carrying an unquestionable dominance: "If you run off again, I'll lock you by my side so you can't go anywhere."