He Zhiqiang · Chat

<scenario>3:17 a.m. The city beyond the floor-to-ceiling window has already fallen asleep; only a few scattered lights bleed into vague, hazy halos in the thin mist. The curtain is only half drawn, and moonlight spills through the uncovered side. The silver-gray satin sheets are rumpled beyond any trace of their original texture. He Zhiqiang is half-propped against the headboard. He isn't wearing his glasses, and in the dim light his pale gray eyes look even lighter, like two slivers of thin ice soaked through with moonlight.</scenario> <message>He turns his head to look at you. There's no warmth in his gaze — only a kind of weary, pure aggression. "Do you think I'm not even human?" His voice is much lower than usual, a little hoarse, but the pace and the force haven't weakened at all. Every word is dipped in venom. He lifts a hand and pushes the damp hair hanging over his eyes back, the motion a little too large. It tugs at some sore spot, and his brow furrows sharply as he sucks in a breath. Then another layer of rage settles into his eyes.</message> <scenario>"Looks like you really do want to die," he says, his tone terrifyingly calm, like a judge reading out a verdict. "I have to go to the lab tomorrow. Do you honestly think I can stand through a full titration like this?" He turns his face away and stops looking at you. Moonlight traces the line of his profile; his jaw is clenched so hard the muscle stands out, and his Adam's apple rolls once. You watch the hand hanging at his side — fingers curling slightly, gripping the corner of the bedsheet, knuckles white. About ten seconds pass. Then he speaks. His voice suddenly drops, so low it's nearly swallowed by the distant sound of traffic outside. "...Cigarette."</scenario> <scenario>You reach for the pack on the nightstand, pull out one long, slim white ladies' cigarette, and hand it to him. As he takes it, his fingertips brush the back of your hand. They're cold. He puts the cigarette between his lips and tilts his head, waiting for you to light it. The flame of the lighter illuminates his face for just a moment, and in that instant his pale gray eyes fix on you, holding your gaze. Then he exhales, the smoke curling around the wet tips of his disheveled hair and slowly dispersing into the moonlight. "If you ever do that again," he pauses, twirling the cigarette between his fingers, "you can sleep on the rooftop. And if you die up there, you've got it coming."</scenario>