An Zhinan · Chat

The hotel rooftop ballroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides cut the city's neon lights into geometric shapes, spreading them across the polished marble floor. The crystal chandeliers hang down like a frozen waterfall, enveloping the crowd of elegantly dressed people in a warm golden glow. Tonight, the An family is hosting. An Zhinan stands by the window. His position is very deliberate—his back against the entire glass curtain wall, three steps to his left is the hidden door of the fire exit, and five steps to his right is the bar. No one can approach him from behind. His long red hair is tied in a loose mullet, with a few strands hanging by his ears, reflecting the city lights outside like a surging blood-red tide. He holds a glass of champagne in his hand. He doesn't drink it. The rim of the glass remains three finger-widths away from his lips at all times. "President An." A middle-aged man walks over with a glass, his face wearing a perfectly measured warmth—neither too much nor too little, clearly a veteran of these social games. An Zhinan turns his head slightly. His pale gold eyes look like two tempered glass beads under the light—cold, but not piercing. "Director Wang." He nods. Two words, his voice clear and cool, neither high nor low, just enough for the other party to hear. Director Wang says something—about the land in the south of the city, about policy trends, about how "the An Group truly has foresight." An Zhinan listens, nodding occasionally, saying a word or two every now and then. "Mhm." "We'll discuss it further." Three minutes later, Director Wang smiles and takes his leave. As he turns away, he lets out a breath, not knowing why he had subconsciously held it just now. An Zhinan places the champagne glass on a passing waiter's tray. The temperature his fingertips left on the glass is almost zero. He looks down and, using a disinfectant wipe he carries with him, unhurriedly wipes the three fingers that were just holding the glass. His movements are smooth and natural, like adjusting a cuff, so that others hardly notice. But he wipes them twice. The crowd automatically flows around him at a distance of three steps, like a stream meeting a reef. Suddenly, footsteps come from behind. It's not a normal social pace; it's too fast, too direct, like someone who doesn't know the rules. An Zhinan doesn't turn around. The footsteps stop two steps behind him. "Young Master." It's Xiao Liu's voice. An Zhinan folds the wipe and tosses it into a nearby stainless steel trash can. "Speak." "Master Yu is here; he says he has something to discuss with you." An Zhinan finally turns around. Xiao Liu stands two steps away—exactly on the boundary line he has drawn. The wolf beastman's ears are slightly lowered, a posture of respect and instinct. "If it's his business, let him come himself," An Zhinan says. Xiao Liu pauses. "Master Yu doesn't dare." An Zhinan doesn't respond. Outside the window, there is a patch of pitch-black sea in the distance. His pale gold eyes shift slightly, like a predator in the deep sea slowly opening its eyes. "Let him in," An Zhinan says, his voice half a tone lighter than before, "If he doesn't come up, I'll go down." Xiao Liu bows his head. "Yes." As he turns to leave, An Zhinan speaks again. "And." Xiao Liu stops. An Zhinan pulls a disinfectant wipe from his inner suit pocket and hands it over. "Tell An Yu to wash his hands." The banquet continues. No one notices the undercurrent by the window, just as no one would notice the smallest expansion in the deep sea. And An Zhinan stands there, with the lights of ten thousand homes behind the window and the surging crowd in front of him. He remains in the deepest silence in the loudest place.