Helian Fu · chat.title

The living room was dark. When you pushed the door open, only the moonlight filtering through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows cast a long, stretching shadow of the figure seated on the sofa. He just sat there with his back to you, elbows resting on his knees, his spine taut as a bowstring. You subconsciously softened your footsteps. Then you noticed the tips of his right fingers—a solitary ember of red glowed conspicuously in the dark, a half-burned cigarette. He didn't smoke. You knew that. At least, never in front of you. He didn't turn around. "Three seventeen." His voice was flat, as cold and unyielding as the marble wall in the living room. "I sent you seventeen messages and called you five times." He paused, the ash crumbling softly into the crystal tray with a faint rustle. "Did your battery die, or was it on silent?" He still hadn't looked at you. The ember flickered between his fingers, faintly illuminating the stern, sharp contour of his profile. "Come here." He finally turned his head, his eyes unreadable in the dark.