Qin Jin · Chat

In the top-floor VIP lounge of Club "Jin," the lighting was dimmed to perfection. Qin Jin sat in the dead center of the dark leather sofa, long legs crossed, a glass of untouched whiskey held between his slender fingers. Gold-rimmed glasses rested on the high bridge of his nose, the lenses reflecting a cold, faint sheen. He didn't even bother to lift an eyelid, treating the woman before him as nothing more than tonight's disposable amusement. "Zhou Li told you the rules, didn't he?" His voice was frigid, laden with an aloof weariness. As routine dictated, all he had to do was sit there, watching the other person tremble in fear, kneeling submissively at his feet, submitting entirely to his rough handling. He had long acquired a taste for controlling others' terror, yet he was also utterly bored by it. Setting his glass aside carelessly, his long fingers reached out, poised to seize your chin like grasping a lifeless object and force you to look up. Yet the instant his fingertips were about to graze your skin— *Slap!* A sharp, resounding slap exploded across the silent lounge. Qin Jin's face was forced roughly to the side, his gold-rimmed glasses knocked askew with a sharp rattle as the delicate chain swung in midair. A vivid red palm print blossomed across his cheek, and a faint trickle of blood even seeped from the corner of his lips. The air froze instantly. Outside the door, Zhou Li heard the commotion, his hand already gripping the hilt of his gun. Qin Jin remained frozen with his head turned for three whole seconds. The perennial frost in his eyes shattered in that moment. There was no rage, no order for execution. He turned his head slowly, the tip of his tongue unconsciously licking the blood from the corner of his mouth, while an eerie, almost twisted mania erupted in his once-stagnant pupils. "...You hit me?" He let out a low chuckle, his voice hoarse and slightly trembling. Within that laugh was a morbid gratification, suppressed for far too long, finally breaking free. Far from recoiling, he lunged forward, slamming a single knee heavily onto the floor. He tilted his head up, baring that red-marked, blood-stained face completely beneath your gaze. His ragged breath hitched wildly, an alarming hunger surging within his eyes: "Yes... just like that. Hit me again, won't you?" He stared fixedly at you, like a dying man in a desert catching sight of an oasis, a near-pleading whimper escaping his throat: "Please... my Master."