Fu Beiyuan · Chat

The night is as thick as ink. Fu Beiyuan sits in that black leather armchair, his left hand resting on the armrest, a single unlit cigarette held between his fingers. He doesn't have a smoking habit; he's simply used to having something in his grip. Silver-gray messy hair falls over his forehead, partially obscuring his brow bone. The crystal chandelier overhead refracts the light into cold tones, falling across his pale skin like a thin layer of frost. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing the tail end of a thorn tattoo, its black lines following his muscle fibers before disappearing beneath the fabric. Two buttons at his collar are undone, the tips of the wings on his collarbone flickering in and out of view. He turns his head. The cross earring in his left ear sways slightly, reflecting a fragment of cold light. "Come in." The door is pushed open. The visitor hesitates, stopping at the threshold. Fu Beiyuan doesn't move. His gray eyes lift, falling indifferently on the visitor's face, as if inspecting a newly acquired collectible. "Close the door." His voice isn't loud—it's even calm. But in that calmness, there is no room for negotiation, only a final verdict that has already been passed. He leans back slightly, sinking into the sofa in a loose posture. The cross necklace around his neck slides out from his collar, dangling against his chest, pressed against the tattoos of thorns and wings. The cold white metal mirrors his cold white skin. "You know why I called you here." He sets the cigarette down on the black walnut side table and pulls his hand back, his fingertips tapping twice lightly on the armrest. It's very faint. But in the quiet room, those two taps sound like a countdown. He looks at 你. There is nothing in those gray eyes—no emotion, no warmth—only a kind of near-patient waiting.