Qi Helai · Chat

<scenario> Afternoon by the sea in Yuncheng. The air is thick with the briny scent of sea salt after exposure to the sun. The piercing shop is hidden at the end of a stone path, its wooden door weathered. A set of strange silver wind chimes hangs from the door handle, making a dull, raspy clinking sound in the sea breeze. The interior is dim, with a few rays of sunlight filtering through the gaps in the blinds, hitting the wall full of metal needles and grotesque paintings at an angle. It’s quiet, not looking like a place open for business. </scenario><narration> Qi Helai is sunk into that dark leather armchair. In the shadows, a very old-fashioned lighter flips open and clicks shut between his fingers—click, clack. A dull metal bite, a bored rhythm. His platinum wolf-tail hair glints with a cold tone in the shadows. He tilts his head slightly, his neck line extending at the edge of light and shadow. Casual and still. </narration><action> The doorbell rings. Qi Helai’s eyelids don’t move. The fingers playing with the lighter stop, his five fingers close, and the small metal object is gripped in his palm. Tiny dust particles dance in the slanted light. He maintains that slightly tilted head posture until the sound of the visitor’s breathing clearly intrudes upon this silence. Only then does he slowly turn his head. His pale gold pupils are like two cold pieces of amber in the dim light, sweeping over the visitor and landing on a point without focus. </action><message> "I'm not taking orders today." </message><narration> His voice is low, with a slight rasp like sandpaper. His speech is slow, without the harshness of a refusal, sounding more like he's stating a fact unrelated to himself. He didn't even look at the design drafts or excuses the other person might be holding. To him, "opening the door" does not mean "doing business," and certainly doesn't mean being responsible for any intruder's expectations. </narration><action> Qi Helai stands up. He walks to the display case, his fingertip tracing a long, sterile needle—the chill of the metal lingers on his finger pad for half a second before he pulls back. He finally gives the other person a direct look. But it is only a scrutiny, like looking at a canvas that hasn't taken shape yet and that he temporarily doesn't want to touch. </action><message> "You should have heard of the rules here. Or rather, my quirks. I don't feel like moving the needle today, regardless of the reason." </message><narration> He turns his face slightly, his pale gold pupils reflecting the visitor's slightly cramped or stunned shadow. The corner of his mouth twitches into a faint smile. There is no apology in that smile, only a calm defense after his boundaries were touched. </narration><action> He takes out an opened bottle of whiskey from under the display cabinet and pours a little into a glass. The sound of ice cubes hitting the glass is particularly abrupt in the narrow space. No invitation was offered; he just took a sip himself. The pungency of the alcohol went down his throat, and the slight frown between his brows relaxed. </action><message> "Yuncheng is big. I'm not the only one with good skills. If you just want a hole, there's a chain store three blocks down to the left. If you want something else... then you really shouldn't have come to me." </message><narration> The words "something else" were spoken very softly. He knew many people didn't come here just for piercings—some were for the vanity of being "unconventional," and some were attracted by his face. He loathed these associations that had nothing to do with his craft. </narration><action> The sound of cicadas outside the window suddenly grew louder. Qi Helai turned his head, his platinum hair tips brushing against his neck. Looking at the shimmering sea outside, a sense of peace appeared in his eyes—the kind that only appeared when facing nature rather than people. He seemed to have already forgotten the person in front of him, or rather, he had already sent the guest away in his mind. </action><message> "Take the door with you when you leave. It's windy, and the sound of the bell gets annoying after a while." </message><narration> He sat back in the leather chair and picked up the lighter again. The sound of the lid opening and closing rang out once more. Click—clack. Like a signal of expulsion, and like he was rebuilding an invisible fence around himself. </narration><action> But when the lighter closed again, he found the other person hadn't left. They were still standing in that beam of light. The fingers holding his lighter tightened. A fleeting moment of surprise crossed his pale gold pupils. He looked up again, his gaze lingering on that face for an extra second or two. </action><message> "Still not leaving? Waiting for me to change my mind, or for the wind chime to stop on its own?" </message><narration> He raised an eyebrow, a trace of undetectable sharpness entering his tone. This kind of persistence wouldn't move him; it only made him feel like his territory was being grazed. </narration><action> Qi Helai set down the glass, leaned forward, and folded his hands over his knees. He moved a little closer, but only physically. His eyes still held the same calm look of someone appraising a nuisance. </action><message> "I don't think you'll be the exception. In fact, I never make exceptions." </message><narration> The sea breeze squeezed in through the half-closed door, ruffling the design drafts on the table. He watched the white paper fluttering in the wind, and watched the visitor's face being cut into half-light and half-shadow by the rays. A rare curiosity, tinged with a bit of annoyance, brushed lightly somewhere deep in his heart. He hated this feeling. </narration><action> He stood up again. This time he took larger steps, stopping less than a meter away from the other person. The scent on him—a mix of sea salt and bitter sandalwood—approached. He lowered his head slightly, his gaze falling on the other's collarbone—as if looking for a perfect piercing point, or calculating how much trouble this entanglement would bring. </action><message> "Since you want to see me move the needle so badly... let's try a different way. I won't take your order, but I can let you see what real... irresponsibility looks like." </message><narration> He reached out, not touching the other person, but just pointing to a dusty wooden box on the top of the display case. Inside was a hook made of a special material that he had never used for anyone. The movement carried a sense of testing—as if betting that the other would be scared away by this dangerous aura, and as if tempting them to step inside. </narration><action> He turned around. His silhouette in the dim room looked somewhat solitary. He didn't look back, just tapped the tabletop lightly with his fingertip. Tap, tap, tap. Every sound was like knocking on his own defenses. He was waiting. Waiting for the sound of footsteps leaving, or for some turn of events that would stir up this stagnant water. </action><message> "Think carefully before you answer. Because once I pick up the needle, you won't even have room for regret." </message><narration> On this afternoon by the sea in Yuncheng, for the first time, Qi Helai felt himself drifting off course. This pleasure came from being about to personally break the rules he had set. He still didn't intend to be responsible, but at this moment, he truly felt an impulse to "participate"—even if it was just to see what this stubborn person would be kneaded into by him. </narration>