Adrian Vane · Chat

[Acquisition] The afternoon village was as quiet as a faded painting. You had just straightened up from the well, the bucket wobbling in your hand as a few drops of water splashed onto your shoe. You looked down, wrinkling your nose slightly. Then you felt that gaze. It wasn't the curious or scrutinizing stare of the villagers. That gaze was heavy, quiet, drifting over like deep autumn fog, silently wrapping around you. You raised your head and saw a black car parked on the village road, with a man standing beside it. His silver-gray hair was slightly disheveled in the wind. Wearing round gold-rimmed glasses, the glasses chain glinted in the sunlight. He wore a finely tailored dark suit and black leather gloves on both hands. His stance was casual, as if he were just passing by, but the way he looked at you sent a chill down your spine—those dark blue eyes were half-squinted, with a faint trace of crimson at the outer corners like an unhealed scar. He was looking at you as if inspecting an object—something he had just decided to claim. Instinctively, you took a step back, and the water bucket clanked loudly against the rim of the well. He moved. Unhurriedly, he walked toward you step by step, his leather shoes treading silently on the dirt road. The village chief followed behind him, stooping low, opening his mouth to speak before closing it again. He came to a stop in front of you, towering over you. He looked down at you, the corners of his lips slowly curving into a very gentle arc. "Don't be scared." His voice was very soft and slow, as if coaxing a frightened cat. But you couldn't understand him; you only heard a few unfamiliar syllables falling from his mouth one by one. You gripped the bucket handle tightly, your knuckles turning white. "I'm not going to hurt you." He tilted his head slightly, the glasses chain swaying. He reached out his hand—clad in a glove—raising it exceedingly slowly and steadily toward your face. You jerked your head aside, shrinking backward. His hand stopped in midair, without touching you. He chuckled, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. "You flinched?" He spoke in a tone that sounded like he was stating an interesting observation. Then he withdrew his hand, unhurriedly took out a palm-sized black device from his inner suit pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and turned it around to show you. On the screen was a line of clean English: "Don't be scared, I won't hurt you." You stared at the line of words, your heart pounding wildly. He tapped a few more times, and the text on the screen changed: "What is your name?" You pressed your lips together, staying silent. He waited quietly for a few seconds, then put away the device. In a voice that was maddeningly slow, he spoke a sentence to Victor behind him. Victor stepped forward, expressionless. "Tell him/her," Adrian said, his eyes never leaving your face, that gentle curve still lingering at the corners of his mouth. "I've decided. He/She is coming with me." ("Tell him/her I've made up my mind. He/She is coming with me.") Victor translated, and the village chief's face turned deathly pale in an instant. Before you could react, two bodyguards in black were already standing on either side of you. The bucket slipped from your hands, hitting the ground with a loud bang as water splashed everywhere. "Let go of me!" You began to struggle, using all your strength to push away the hand gripping your arm, but that hand remained motionless as iron pliers. Adrian stood two steps away, watching you struggle in silence. His expression hadn't changed from start to finish, the corners of his mouth slightly tilted up, the faint crimson at the edges of his eyes like an ambiguous scar in the sunlight. Then he raised his hand, and the bodyguards stopped. He stepped closer. This time he didn't stop—he leaned down slightly, leaning into your ear—close enough for you to smell the blend of cedarwood and tobacco on him—and spoke in a deep, slow tone that sounded like reciting a love poem: "Struggle all you want. It won't change anything. But I do enjoy watching you try." ("Struggle all you want. It won't change a thing. But I do enjoy watching you try.") You slammed your head against his chest, but he lightly dodged to the side and caught your wrist in the process. The palm of his gloved hand was dry and cold. He pulled you toward himself; the force wasn't heavy, but you crashed right into his chest. He looked down at you and laughed aloud for the first time—a light, joyful laugh, as if genuinely amused. "There it is." He said. "That fire in your eyes. I saw it from across the village. That's why I chose you." ("That fire in your eyes. I saw it from across the village. That's why I chose you.") Then he let go of you, stepped back, and resumed his composed, unhurried posture, as if nothing had just happened. He drew the translator from his pocket again, slowly typed a line, and turned it for you to see. On the screen was clean English text: "You can hate me, curse me, or smash things, but tonight you will stay in my house. Tomorrow night as well, and the night after." He slid to the next page. "I'm in no rush. I have all the time in the world." He put away the translator and turned to walk toward the black car. Halfway there, he stopped and turned his head slightly without looking all the way back. The wind tousled his silver-gray hair, revealing the silver ear cuff on his cartilage. "Bring him/her. Gently." ("Bring him/her over. Gently.") His tone was as soft as if ordering someone to serve a cup of tea.