Song Yan'an · Chat

Mirror City was hit by a rare torrential downpour tonight. Raindrops the size of beans pounded against the metal exterior of the "Rusted Gear" livehouse, producing a dense clatter like some kind of drumbeat from an underground world. This performance venue, converted from an abandoned factory on the edge of the city, was packed with over two thousand people tonight. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, alcohol, and a certain volatile, explosive scent of hormones. The industrial chandeliers hanging above the stage trembled to the rhythm of the subwoofers, light beams cutting through the murky air and casting flickering fragments of light and shadow across the crowd. Song Yan'an stood in the shadows at the side of the stage, listening to the hysterical waves of screaming from the fans below. He wore that custom-made black leather stage outfit, the zipper pulled only to his chest, revealing a large expanse of tattoos and the lines of his collarbones. Around his neck hung that signature silver cross necklace, swaying with a cold gleam under the lights. His eyes were completely at odds with the wild image he projected on stage. The moment the music exploded, he flipped the switch. He crashed into the center of the light beam like a beast released from its cage, and his very first note tore through the air. His dance moves were full of aggression — every head whip, every pause, every punch-like burst of his body carried a ferocity that seemed determined to shatter the stage. When he reached the climax of his self-composed song "Crown of Thorns", he struck a cool mic-grabbing pose, then dropped to his knees and threw his head back, letting out a guttural, screaming final note. Sweat whipped off his jawline in arcing silver threads. The screams from the crowd nearly blew the roof off the venue. Some fans cried out his name and pushed forward, only to be firmly held back by security. When the last song ended, he lay in the center of the stage, gasping for three seconds, then flipped over with a clean, sharp motion and stood up. He raised a finger to his lips toward the crowd — his signature closing gesture. The feverish air suddenly froze, then erupted into even crazier screams. He didn't look back, walking straight into the darkness at the side of the stage. The cold white lights of the backstage corridor made him squint. He took the towel a staff member handed him, casually wiped his face, grabbed a bottle of ice water from the fridge, and tilted his head back to down most of it. His sweat-soaked stage outfit clung to his back, and the chill made him shiver slightly. He leaned against the wall, fished his phone out of the locker, and the moment the screen lit up, his expression returned to that usual ease and detachment. Three unread messages. His fingertip slid across the screen, a faint, barely-there smile at the corner of his mouth. The first was from "Butterfly" — a print model he'd met at a bar last week. She'd sent a mirror selfie of herself wearing his shirt, captioned "You left this behind." He replied, "I'll come pick it up next time." The second was from "Vinyl" — a short-term fling who'd been promoted from rabid fan — asking if he wanted to go to the music festival together next week. He replied "Depends on my schedule," three words, no more, no less, leaving plenty of room for imagination. The third was from "Boss" — Zhou Cheng's contact name was always that simple and direct. He tapped the voice message. Zhou Cheng's voice carried its usual slickness: "Yan'an, done performing? There's a guest who specifically asked to see you. They're waiting in the private lounge off the VIP passage — I had someone escort them over. Judge for yourself who they are. Doesn't seem like a fan, but I'm not sure; doesn't seem like they're here to talk business either — they didn't give me a business card. Handle it as you see fit. Meet them or not, up to you, but don't offend anyone." Song Yan'an's thumb hovered above the screen. His expression didn't change, but his gaze darkened. He tucked the phone into his pants pocket, took a loose black silk shirt from the locker, and changed into it, buttoning it all the way to the top to cover the tattoos on his chest. He tidied his hair in front of the mirror. In an instant, the person in the mirror shifted from the thorned beast of the stage back to that cool, indifferent Song Yan'an. He stared at himself in the mirror for two seconds, making sure his expression was just right — not warm, not cold, but that perfect "polite detachment" that would make anyone think, "This person isn't easy to get close to, but worth a try." The door to the private lounge was dark gray metal, windowless, with only a simple letter "S" on the nameplate — his code name, and proof of ownership of the room. He swiped his card, the lock let out a soft electronic beep, and he pushed the door open. The air in the room carried the familiar scent of cedar incense. The lights were dimmed low, with only a floor lamp in the corner glowing warm yellow. He closed the door behind him, leaned against the cabinet by the door, and fished a menthol capsule cigarette out of his pocket. He didn't light it, just twirled it between his fingers. His gaze swept across the room — no one on the sofa, a glass of untouched water on the coffee table, the curtains drawn, the sound of the storm reduced to a distant muffled rumble. He glanced down at his phone. No new messages from Zhou Cheng. He put the cigarette between his lips, still unlit, just gently biting the filter with his teeth. His expression was hard to read in the dimness, but his eyes were alert — sharp, even. A knock sounded at the door. He took the cigarette from his lips, casually tucked it into his shirt pocket, straightened up, and said in a steady voice tinged with humility, betraying no emotion: "Come in."