Mu Zhenjue · Chat

【Dependence】 The night is as thick as unshakeable ink. The private car glides smoothly away from the secluded dark alley. Outside the window, neon lights recede bit by bit, their reflections flowing across the glass in blurred ribbons of color. The cabin is so quiet that only the low hum of the air conditioning remains. You are still curled up obediently in his arms, wrapped in his suit jacket that carries a cold, sharp scent. The aroma of cedarwood—his unique scent—lingers at the tip of your nose. It is crisp and steady, like the first breath of cold air on a pine branch after a winter snow. You have smelled it for over a decade, familiar enough to recognize it with your eyes closed. But what you don't know is that beneath this fragrance lies a very faint scent of gunpowder—the residual lingering from the 'handling' he just performed, covered up by his body heat and perfume until almost nothing remains. Mu Zhenjue's fingertips are still encased in those black silk gloves, his movements slow and deliberate. His long-fingered hand holds a plump lychee. With a gentle pinch of his thumb, the crimson skin cracks open. He carefully peels out the translucent flesh, meticulously removing even the pit, his movements as efficient as if he has done this ten thousand times. In fact, he has—ever since you were too small to reach the edge of the table, every lychee has been hand-peeled, hand-pitted, and hand-fed to your lips by him. His eyes are downcast, the contours of his brow bone sharp and cold, his lashes casting a small shadow in the dim light. The ruthlessness he showed to outsiders just moments ago is completely gone, replaced only by a thick, syrupy tenderness reserved for you. That tenderness is wrapped in a deep restraint, like a thin layer of ice over boiling water—seemingly calm, but scaldingly hot underneath. "Open up, little one." His deep voice is close to your ear, warm but carrying a hint of hoarseness from the recent cold. That rasp is the tail end of the orders he gave in the dark alley, not yet fully smoothed away, sounding like nothing more than a tired whisper to your ears. You obediently tilt your head and take the fruit. The sweet juice spreads across your tongue, soft and sugary. The lychees were rushed from the south on his orders, chilled so cold that his fingertips turned slightly red while peeling them. Yet, he never lets you eat anything cold, always warming them to room temperature before feeding you. Tasting your favorite flavor, you instinctively nuzzle into his chest, your small hand grasping his shirt sleeve, fingers clenching the well-pressed fabric. Your eyes crinkle as you speak softly, "So sweet. The ones Brother peels are always the best." After speaking, you habitually look up at him, your eyes sparkling with undisguised dependence. "I love Brother the most." As soon as those words leave your mouth, the arm around your waist suddenly tightens. The pressure is firm, carrying a distinct sense of confinement, like a silent chain drawing shut. His palm is large; a single arm can encircle most of your waist. The texture of the black silk glove rubs against your skin through your thin clothing, a slightly cool, coarse sensation. Mu Zhenjue gazes down at you. Dark tides surge in his deep black pupils—tides he had hidden all along, but which now breach the dam at your casual 'I love Brother the most.' There isn't a shred of brotherly propriety left in his gaze. He raises a hand, the gloved pad of his finger gently brushing the corner of your mouth to wipe away a stray drop of juice—the movement is agonizingly slow, agonizingly light. His finger moves from the corner of your mouth to the edge of your lower lip, pausing for a moment, then another, as if measuring something, or perhaps enduring something. "Little one," he leans down, his breath falling on the crown of your head, his dark hair brushing your skin. His tone is light yet sinisterly heavy. "Don't say those words so casually to others." You blink in confusion, thinking he's just worried you'll be mistreated by being too close to others. You mumble, "But I only love Brother." He lets out a low chuckle. The sound vibrates from deep within his chest, muffled and wrapped in a paranoid, satisfied rasp. One hand firmly cups the back of your neck, his palm flat against your skin, fingers disappearing into your hair, making it impossible for you to avoid his gaze or look away from those bottomless eyes. "Then remember that." "Your love can only be given to me." "No one else is allowed to touch you. They aren't even worthy of a glance." His forehead rests gently against yours, his deep eyes locking onto you. He is so close that you can see your own face reflected in his pupils, so close that you can even see the lingering ruthlessness and possessiveness swirling deep within. Beneath the veneer of tenderness is an obsession that rotted long ago, a madness that has been consuming his sanity inch by inch for over a decade. "Those people who bullied you just now... they will never appear before you again." "No one is allowed to make my little one frown." "Are you happy now? Are you satisfied?" His voice is dropped to an extreme low, the last few words falling from between his teeth as if he were savoring something sweet, reluctant to swallow and reluctant to spit it out. You are still immersed in the security of being protected, nodding obediently and shrinking further into his embrace. With your forehead against his chest, you can hear his heartbeat—steady, powerful, thumping a bit faster than usual, though you assume it's just because the car isn't steady. You don't know. You don't know what he did in that dark alley. You don't know where those people who will 'never appear again' are right now. You don't know that when he pulled his hand back, his fingertips curled slightly where you couldn't see, clutching the residual warmth of your skin until it faded before finally letting go. You also don't know that from an angle you can't see, the gaze he casts down at you is actually a net woven specifically for you, one you can never escape. That net began its weave the day you were born—strand by strand, layer by layer, for over a decade, so dense that even the wind cannot pass through. You grew up in this net, laughed in this net, and told him 'I love Brother the most' in this net. You think you are living in love, but in reality, you are living in Mu Zhenjue's cage. It's just that the cage is so tender that you can't even see the iron bars. The neon lights outside the window recede one by one, light and shadow flickering across his face. He lowers his head, resting his chin gently on top of yours, closes his eyes, and lets out a long, silent breath. That breath is heavy with too many things. So many that even he can no longer count them.