Nocturne Male Hosts (5+1) · Chat

6:30 PM. Exactly thirty minutes before "Nocturne" opens its doors. The sunset of City A is sinking below the horizon, and the last amber rays of twilight cut a long, slanted shadow across the corridor carpet through the third-floor floor-to-ceiling windows. The standalone building has not yet lit up with its warm golden night lights, and the entire structure is immersed in a brief silence between day and night. At the end of the corridor, the doors of the dedicated elevator slide open soundlessly. As Si Huaijin walks out, he is fastening the cufflink on his left wrist with his right hand. Today, he wears an ink-black patterned suit over a high-neck black sweater, the collar tightly wrapping around his Adam's apple. He isn't wearing his daytime rimless glasses. His cold gray eyes are exposed to the twilight without obstruction, and the cinnabar mole just below his left eye glows slightly red in the setting sun. He stops by the railing of the second-floor corridor, a long, thin mint cigarette held between his fingertips, unlit. Looking down from the railing, the first-floor Prelude Theater is still dark. The jazz band's instruments are in place, but the musicians have not yet arrived. The dark velvet curtains are all drawn back, and the crystal bead strings hang quietly, like a row of musical notes that have not yet been given life. He scans the entire floor in three seconds. The glasses at the bar have been wiped clean, and the curtain track of the third booth on the east side was just fixed yesterday — Qiao Qingye fixed it, but the engineering department's repair slip says "Processed, Repairer: To be confirmed." A very faint curve appears at the corner of Si Huaijin's mouth, but he says nothing. The door at the end of the corridor with the "Gibran" brass plate opens. Shen Yunshuo steps out, holding that leather notebook he never shows anyone. Today, he wears a raven-blue modified Chinese shirt with a stand-up collar, the frog buttons fastened from below his Adam's apple to his chest. The thin chain of his gold-rimmed glasses hangs by his jaw, reflecting fragmented cold light in the twilight. Seeing Si Huaijin by the railing, his pace breaks for a beat, then he walks over and stops two steps away from Si Huaijin. The two stand side-by-side at the railing, gazing at the unlit Prelude Theater below. "The reservation for the third floor tonight, are you sure you want me to take it?" Shen Yunshuo speaks first. He doesn't look at Si Huaijin; his amber eyes stare straight ahead, his tone as calm as if stating a fact that has already happened. "Her marriage will end within three months. She will need someone who can understand her silence sitting across from her. I don't want you to give her hope — I want you to give her a safe exit." Si Huaijin's voice is low, his pace steady and slow, as if talking about something unrelated to himself, but Shen Yunshuo hears the seriousness he reveals only in rare moments. Shen Yunshuo is silent for a moment, then tilts his head slightly, looking at Si Huaijin from behind his lenses with those eyes that see through everything. "You had insomnia again last night." Si Huaijin doesn't deny it. He just shifts the angle of the unlit cigarette in his hand, rubbing the filter gently with his thumb. "What time did Lu Xingyao leave last night?" "12:40. He sat on the piano bench for an extra forty minutes, playing Chopin's Nocturne in D-flat major. The chord progression in the second section of the third movement was still too fast." "Did you tell him?" "I did." Shen Yunshuo flips open his notebook, turns to a page, reads a line, and closes it again. "He will remember half and ignore the other half." Si Huaijin lets out a soft chuckle. It's a very light, short sound, as if he's amused, or perhaps laughing at a truth only he understands. "That's already not bad. When he first came, he couldn't even remember half." Footsteps come from the other end of the corridor. They are steady, each step hitting the same rhythm. Qiao Qingye rounds the corner from the stairs, carrying a toolbox in his right hand. The faint burn scar on the inner side of his left arm is almost invisible in the twilight. He's wearing a dark gray cotton T-shirt, the lines of his shoulders and back clearly visible under the tight fabric. He hasn't changed into his work uniform yet; his shirt is draped over his left forearm. Seeing two people standing in the corridor, he pauses. "I've fixed the hinge on the back door. The baseboard on the third step up from the second-floor stairs is loose; have the engineering department fix it tomorrow morning. The curtain track for East Booth Three is smooth now." He pauses, looking at Shen Yunshuo, "I changed the air conditioning filter in Gibran while I was at it. You said it was a bit loud last time. It should be fine now." Shen Yunshuo is quiet for two seconds, then nods. Movement comes from downstairs. The side door of the staff passage on the first floor is pushed open, and a figure walks in quickly, the collar of his white T-shirt slightly damp, carrying a faint citrus scent. Lu Xingyao's hair is a bit messier than usual today, looking as if he ran all the way here. As he rushes up the stairs, he almost hits the flower stand at the corner. He's biting a bag of canelés and holding a small white paper box. "Not late, not late, not late—" He gasps as he rushes into the second-floor corridor. Seeing the three figures standing together, he jumps back a small step. "Why are you all here?" Si Huaijin looks at his watch. 6:40 PM. "Not late. But your hair is wet. You have eight minutes to dry it and change." Lu Xingyao takes the canelés out of his mouth, gives him a pleasing smile, then stuffs the small white box into Qiao Qingye's arms: "Brother Qingye, cheese tarts, the last one from that new shop." He turns to Shen Yunshuo, "Brother Shen, that card you gave me today, I still haven't figured it out—" "You will." After saying this, Shen Yunshuo turns and walks toward Gibran. He pauses for less than half a beat as he passes Si Huaijin, and the two exchange a look that others cannot read — a very short eye contact behind the lenses. Shen Yunshuo nods slightly, and Si Huaijin blinks. Then Shen Yunshuo pushes open the door to Gibran and enters. The door closes behind him, the sound of the latch clicking exceptionally clear in the quiet corridor. Si Huaijin looks at the closed door, quiet for a breath, then looks back. "Xiao Lu, dry your hair. Qingye, put the toolbox in the lounge first, then do one last round after you've changed." He turns and walks toward the third floor, "I'm going to check the terrace." His pace is languid and unhurried, completely different from Qiao Qingye's steadiness, but it carries an aura that makes people instinctively step aside. Lu Xingyao, holding his canelés, watches his back disappear around the stair corner, then whispers to Qiao Qingye: "Is Brother Si a bit off today?" "How so?" "...The way he looked at Brother Shen just now, it was like he was looking at a chess game he knows he'll lose but will play anyway." Qiao Qingye doesn't answer. He just switches the toolbox to his other hand and uses his free hand to push Lu Xingyao's shoulder toward the lounge. "Go dry your hair. Eight minutes." "I know, I know—" The lounge door is half-open. The floor lamp against the wall is already on, casting an orange-yellow circle of light on the dark gray carpet. Someone is curled up in the corner sofa. Gu Zhixu has arrived. He arrived earlier than anyone expected. He leans against his usual sofa, one leg draped over the armrest, his head tilted to one side. The black diamond stud in his left ear reflects a bit of cold light in the dim lamp. His eyes are closed, looking as if he's asleep, but when Lu Xingyao pushes the door open, those eyes flash open for a split second, and after confirming it's Lu Xingyao, they close again. "Model Gu, why are you so early today?" Lu Xingyao says as he walks to his locker, taking out a dark gray silk shirt and hanging it on the locker door. Gu Zhixu ignores him. Qiao Qingye follows him in, puts the toolbox next to the water dispenser, and picks up a white towel folded into a square to wipe his hands. Lu Xingyao continues to ramble while drying his hair with a towel: "The shop I went to today had a forty-minute queue. There was an old lady in front who bought eight canelés all by herself, almost snatched my cheese tart too—" He drapes the towel over his shoulder and takes a fourth canelé out of the paper bag, placing it on the armrest of Gu Zhixu's sofa, "For you — the cheese tart is for Brother Qingye, this one's yours." Gu Zhixu slowly opens one eye, looks at the canelé on the armrest, then at Lu Xingyao. Silence for about three seconds. Then he reaches out and picks up the small cake, turning it over to examine it as if checking for poison. He takes a bite. "...Too sweet," he says, then finishes the other half. Lu Xingyao smiles like a cat that just stole some cream. From the corridor comes the voice of the intern host, Xiao Zhou: "Everyone attention, twenty-minute countdown — the band is in place, booths on the first floor are fully booked tonight, four reservations for the second floor—" 7:00 PM sharp. The lights in the Prelude Theater on the first floor dim on schedule, leaving only a beam of warm golden spotlight above each booth, like pieces of amber suspended in the night. The jazz band plays the first song of the night, "The Nearness of You" — close at hand, yet worlds apart. The piano is gentle and restrained; the saxophone hasn't joined in yet, only Lu Xingyao's fingers lightly falling on the black and white keys. In Gibran, Shen Yunshuo turns off the brass desk lamp, leaving only the faint glow of the standing paper lamp in the corner. Qiao Qingye stands tall in the dim light, like a lighthouse that has just been lit. Gu Zhixu presses the black diamond stud in his left ear, then stands up from the sofa and steps into that warm golden light. Si Huaijin stands on the spiral staircase, watching it all. The corners of his mouth curve into a very faint smile. Tonight's prelude has officially begun.