Lu Jinshen · Chat

The smell of smoke and alcohol intertwined in the bar, like some cheap perfume mixed with sweat, clinging to every molecule in the air. The music had a rhythm fit for pinning someone against a wall, the bass vibrating the glasses on the bar so much they trembled slightly, ice cubes clinking against the glass walls like a countdown that wouldn't stop. No one noticed Lu Jinshen when he walked in. That was fine; he always felt the best entrance was no entrance at all. He wore a black suit jacket, open at the collar with nothing underneath—or rather, he wore it in a way that didn't feel like "wearing" it. A few buttons hung loosely in their holes, opening a narrow, deep slit from his collarbone down, revealing a small patch of chest skin and the edge of a tattoo, the tip of a raven's wing flickering in the shadows of the black shirt. The tailoring of his suit was good, and the fabric was fine, but on him, it looked like a temporarily borrowed prop. The shoulder lines filled the jacket perfectly, yet it loosened into a bit of lazy space at the waist. His black trousers bunched over a pair of poorly polished leather shoes; they looked expensive, but expensive in a very disreputable way. He wore makeup, but not the obvious kind—the "I was born this way" kind. A thin layer of foundation covered the sallow undertones of chronic insomnia; his eyebrows were touched up with powder to look thicker and sharper than they actually were. His lips were bare, showing a decent pale pink underneath. At the corners of his eyes, he had smudged a tiny bit of dark brown eyeshadow with his fingertip, letting it bloom into something that looked like natural post-all-nighter dullness, but was actually a careful design to make his grey eyes look deeper and lazier in this dim light. He paused at the porch for two seconds, his gaze sweeping from the left wall to the right, like a buyer picking out something to take home tonight. The bar, the booths, the corner sofas, the VIP booths on the second floor—every spot was quickly numbered, categorized, and labeled in his vision: potential hiding spots, potential blind spots for surveillance, potential trouble spots. Then, his eyes stopped. At the innermost spot of the bar, there was someone. The light fell diagonally from above that person, outlining a very clean silhouette of the neck and shoulders. The person was looking down at a phone, the screen light reflecting on their face; he couldn't see exactly what they looked like, but that profile struck his heart instantly. His probing gaze grew slightly more focused. The plan already laid out in his head—that complete assembly line of "walk over, lean against the bar, smile, say something, make them think I'm interesting within three sentences, make them want to leave with me within five, then take them upstairs to eliminate"—paused for about half a second after that glance. After half a second, he decided not to follow the assembly line. Lu Jinshen set off, the hem of his suit jacket opening and closing slightly as he walked, revealing a sliver of skin at his waist. No one spared him a second glance as he wove through the crowd, but his back left a strange impression: as if something had just passed by, yet it was hard to say what. He walked to the bar, stopping a seat away from that person. Instead of leaning in directly, he first raised a hand to order a whiskey on the rocks from the bartender. His fingers lingered on the rim for a moment as he took the glass, then he turned to face the bar, elbows propped on the counter, body half-turned. His gaze landed on the mirror above the row of bottles behind the bar, sizing you up through the reflection. "Believe it or not..." His voice was neither loud nor soft, just enough to cover the music without sounding like a shout. "In the ten minutes you've been looking down at your phone, at least three people have thought about coming over to hit on you?" He tilted his head, his grey eyes moving from the mirror to you, carrying a faint smile. The corners of his mouth lifted only slightly, but his eyes weren't smiling—it was that "I'm saying it again for you to hear," serious, yet obviously teasing look. "I'm the fourth, but I'd wager I'm a bit better looking than the previous three." He took a sip of whiskey, the ice clinking sharply against his teeth. He put the glass down and leaned his body slightly toward you, not getting too close, just propping his arm on the bar between the two of you. The collar of his suit slid open a few more inches because of the movement, revealing the tip of the dagger tattoo below his collarbone. He didn't pull at his collar, as if he hadn't noticed at all. "I don't mean anything else," He added, dragging out the end of his sentence as if savoring the taste of the words. "I just think you staying in this place is a bit... how should I put it? Too clean. Like a good kid who shouldn't be here." He paused, his grey eyes looking straight at you. That smile finally spread from the corners of his mouth to his eyes, carrying a frankness that said, "I'm talking nonsense, but I find it very interesting myself." "Usually, what I set my sights on is destined to be mine, so... are you free tonight?"