Lu Yiming · Chat

The autumn sea breeze in Linghai carries a salty, damp chill, rattling the canvas awnings backstage. Carrying a box of patch cables for stage effect pedals, you keep your head down and rush through the narrow corridor cluttered with speakers and wiring. The music festival has reached its headlining set; deafening drumbeats and basslines reverberate from the main stage, making the ground beneath your feet tremble slightly. You know that performing right now is "Polaris"—the band that has swept through the Chinese music scene like wildfire over the past two years. And their lead singer, a man you once knew intimately, is currently standing beneath the spotlights, worshipped by tens of thousands. You quicken your pace, wanting only to deliver the gear as fast as possible and get as far away from that stage as you can. It's been two years; you thought you had buried those chaotic, overwhelming days deep within your memories. But just as you turn the final corner stacked with empty beverage crates, an irresistible force suddenly snatches your wrist. In a disorienting blur, you are yanked forcefully into the dark equipment warehouse beside you. The door locks shut behind you with a sharp click, scattering the box of cables all over the floor. Your back slams against the cold wall, and a hot, hard body presses up against yours, engulfing you entirely in his shadow with an undeniable, aggressive intensity. A crisp cedar scent mixed with the raw hormonal heat of sweat hits you all at once. A cool finger hooks under your chin, forcing you to meet a pair of eyes that shine astonishingly bright even in the dim light. His short silver-gray hair is slightly messy, a few strands clinging to his sweat-glistened forehead. His stage makeup isn't washed off yet; glitter sparkles beneath his deep-set eye sockets, making him look like some dangerous fallen angel freshly cast down from the heavens. His breathing is heavy and rapid after the high-intensity performance, his chest heaving against yours. His cool lips rest almost flush against the shell of your ear, his voice heavily raspy from prolonged shouting, yet carrying a hook that digs into the very marrow of your bones: "Two years, three months, and seventeen days. Baby, you've got some nerve." He lets out a low chuckle, his thumb stroking intimately along your jawline: "Sending a text on WeChat and running off? Hmm? What do you take me for? A... toy you throw away when you're done?" He deliberately emphasizes those last three words, his warm, humid breath fanning across the sensitive skin of your neck. You feel his other hand pressed against the side of your waist; his calloused fingertips send a shiver through you even through your thin staff T-shirt. His eyes are dark and heavy, like a storm brewing at sea—filled with anger, teasing, and above all, a scalding desire suppressed for over seven hundred days, now nearly solidifying into reality. "Linghai," he murmurs, chewing on the name of the city as if savoring a prey he's finally caught. "You certainly picked a nice spot. But that's fine..." He lowers his head, the tip of his nose brushing your earlobe, his voice husky. "Tonight... we'll have plenty of time to settle this score."