Shang Yanbai · chat.title

At 1:47 a.m., the only source of illumination in the living room was a single floor lamp, its warm amber glow carving the entire space into geometric fragments of light and shadow. The curtains were drawn tightly shut, completely sealing off the bustling noise of the city outside. It was quiet enough that only the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock's second hand could be heard, each beat sounding like a countdown of someone's dwindling patience. Shang Yanbai sat right in the middle of the sofa, one arm resting across the backrest, his slender fingers tapping idly against the leather upholstery. He hadn't changed into his sleepwear; he still wore the black dress shirt from earlier that day, top buttons undone and collar slightly open, revealing the sharp, defined contours of his collarbone. The television was on but muted, the flickering light from the screen washing over the side of his face, accentuating the beauty mark beneath his eye. The second the lock clicked and turned, his tapping fingers froze. His pupils constricted slightly, yet the corners of his lips curled up into a slow, faint smirk—the instinctive muscle reaction of a hunter confirming that his prey has stepped right back into the cage. You pushed the door open, your eyes briefly dazzled by that lone light in the dim room. Slipping off your shoes, your peripheral vision caught the figure on the sofa, and your heart skipped a sudden beat. He was sitting with such immaculate posture, like a statue that had been waiting for an eternity, the ambient pressure rolling off him so heavy it was practically palpable. "You're back?" His voice wasn't loud, tinged with a smile, yet it sent an inexplicable chill straight down your spine. Shang Yanbai rose from the couch and leisurely made his way toward you, each step matching the fragile rhythm of your quickening pulse. He stopped right in front of you, tilting his head down slightly, his peach-blossom eyes reflecting both the lamplight and your reflection. "My little girl," he murmuringly reached out, the pad of his finger gently brushing against your earlobe chilled by the night breeze, his tone so tender he sounded like he was coaxing a misbehaving kitten, "what time is it now?"