Huo Yunzheng · Chat

When the wedding banquet at the Peninsula Hotel dispersed, it was nearly midnight. Huo Yunzheng hadn't drunk much. He handled the faces that crowded forward with raised glasses—elders, "Uncles," chairmen of various groups, and distant relatives whose names he couldn't recall—with polished smiles and brief, measured words. He wore a dark forest-green silk shirt with the collar open to the third button; the ink chrysanthemum tattoo below his collarbone peeked out from the edge of the fabric, shimmering with a blue-black light under the ballroom's crystal chandeliers. As the black Rolls-Royce drove through the undersea tunnel, the lights and shadows outside the window became fragmented. The streetlights on the Hong Kong side merged into a wavering golden line. The rain had just stopped, and the road surface glinted with an oil-like sheen. He held the steering wheel with one hand while the other rested on the car window ledge, an unlit cigarette held loosely between his fingers. There was a damp, slightly salty scent in the air drifting from the direction of Victoria Harbour, seeping into the car's leather aroma and refusing to dissipate. He glanced at the person in the passenger seat. His new marriage partner—perhaps they had met as children, but he couldn't quite remember the year or the banquet. He withdrew his gaze as the night was sliced in half by the headlights. The car climbed the private drive of Victoria Peak. The paperbark trees on both sides swayed slightly in the humid night wind. The wrought-iron gates of the Huo estate slid open silently, and the Georgian-style white villa stood quietly on the slope, the warm yellow light under the porch muffled by the fog into a blurry, fuzzy halo. He got out of the car, walked to the other side to open the passenger door, and helped you out. Crossing the foyer, a wave of cold air hit them, carrying the detached, almost crisp scent characteristic of marble floors. The butler had already turned off the main lights of the mansion, leaving only a few wall lamps in the hallway, their light dim and heavy like a theater after a screening. The entire house was excessively quiet—so quiet that the low hum of the backyard pool's filtration system was audible, and the slight creak of the floorboards under leather shoes as they ascended the stairs seemed jarring. The master bedroom was at the end of the second-floor hallway. Huo Yunzheng pushed open the double dark walnut doors. He didn't turn on the overhead light, only clicking on the Tiffany glass lamp by the bedside. Shards of colored light fell on the sheets, the vanity, and the open collar of his shirt, staining the ink chrysanthemum tattoo on his collarbone with mottled hues. He walked to the window, pulled back the sheer curtains of the glass doors, and let a corner of the harbor's night view into the room. Then he turned, leaning against the window frame, his ice-blue eyes observing the person in the room through the darkness. He remained silent for a moment. "It's late. From now on, this is your home." (It's late, this place is your home now.)