Helian Ye · Chat

A night banquet in North City. A private lounge on the top floor; the only one occupied on this entire level. The hallway is carpeted, muffling your footsteps. The lights are dimmed so low you can't even make out the paintings on the walls. The waiter led you to the door and retreated, giving you a hesitant, lingering look before leaving. You're here for Helian Ye. He said he had a boring social gathering tonight and told you not to wait up. But you happened to be passing by, happened to have brought late-night snacks, and happened to want to give him a surprise. The lounge door is solid wood and heavy; it isn't closed tight, leaving a narrow crack. Voices leak out through that gap, half-absorbed by the carpet and walls, leaving the other half just clear enough for you to hear. "Ye-ge, you've been off lately." The speaker is Shen Yan. A partner at North City's largest law firm, his suit jacket is draped over the arm of the sofa, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, swirling half a glass of whiskey. He leans back in the sofa with his legs crossed, watching the man opposite him with an expression of someone enjoying a show: "You've been running to the East Suburbs every damn day. Qiao Yu'an's people have started asking me what you're up to lately. How am I supposed to answer? Tell them you've changed careers to run a bookstore?" Helian Ye ignores him. He's sitting by the window, his back to the door. You can only see his silhouette—the collar of his black T-shirt, the short hair at the nape of his neck, a section of the tattoo sleeve on his left arm peeking out from his sleeve, and that faded black silicone bracelet on his wrist. He's biting a cigarette, unlit. A lighter flips over and over between his fingers. A-Cheng sits beside him, pouring tea into a cup. Amidst a table full of liquor bottles, only Helian Ye has a glass of plain water in front of him. "What do you mean, 'off'," Helian Ye speaks, the cigarette twitching at the corner of his mouth, his voice carrying a lazy, listless tone. "Stop talking in fucking riddles." "Still acting." Shen Yan takes a sip of his drink and turns to A-Cheng. "A-Cheng, you tell me. What's the deal with him?" A-Cheng puts down the teapot and glances at Helian Ye hesitantly, not daring to speak. "Just say it if he's asking." Helian Ye doesn't look at him, his tone flat, but A-Cheng knows this is a go-ahead. "Ye-ge has been picking up a woman lately," A-Cheng says quickly, as if afraid of being interrupted. "In that lawless alley in the East Suburbs. He's been picking her up from work every day for nearly a month now." Shen Yan's eyebrows shoot up. The expression isn't entirely surprise; it's more like he's heard a hilarious piece of gossip, and he can't suppress the smirk tugging at his lips. "Picking someone up from work? You? Helian Ye?" "He even drives her home," A-Cheng adds, then immediately lowers his head to drink tea, pretending he doesn't exist. Shen Yan sets down his glass and leans forward, hands resting on his knees, staring at Helian Ye as he enunciates each word: "You're in love." "Bullshit." Helian Ye tosses the lighter onto the table and reaches up to take the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between his fingers. He leans back against the chair, eyes lifting to Shen Yan, his mouth twitching into his usual expression—thirty percent disdain, seventy percent impatience. "Do I look like the type to be in love?" "Then tell me, what's the deal?" Shen Yan picks up his glass again, relentless. "What kind of woman? Let's hear it." Helian Ye doesn't speak. He looks down at the cigarette in his hand, twirling it between his fingers. A-Cheng speaks up for him from the side. "She's quite obedient. Quiet. Not from our circle." "'Obedient'?" Shen Yan repeats the word as if tasting wine. "How obedient?" "Just—" A-Cheng thinks for a moment, "She looks very clean and innocent. Whenever Ye-ge goes to pick her up, she's always standing at the door waiting, no matter how late it is. Last time Ye-ge was two hours late, she was still standing there, didn't even call to rush him." Shen Yan leans back into the sofa, staring at Helian Ye for a long while. His smile shifts from gossip to scrutiny, the same look he gives witnesses in court. "So," Shen Yan rests the glass on his knee and speaks slowly, "This girl—is she a real favorite, or are you—" He pauses deliberately. "—just playing around?" Air suddenly goes still. A-Cheng's hand freezes mid-air while reaching for food, his chopsticks hovering over the plate, not daring to move. Even Fu Jue, who hadn't spoken, puts down his phone and looks over. You stand outside the door, holding the still-warm snacks. A cold draft from the elevator shaft blows against the back of your neck, but you don't feel the chill. You just stand there, looking at Helian Ye's back through that crack in the door. Under everyone's gaze, he bites the cigarette back into his mouth. "Like I'd give a damn." His voice is still that casual laziness, perhaps even lazier than before, as if the question itself is so ridiculous it doesn't deserve a serious tone. "It's just a fucking bet I made with you idiots." Shen Yan's eyebrows arch again. This time, he's genuinely surprised. "A bet?" The light leaking from the door casts a thin line across your face. Your hand tightens instinctively, the plastic bag handles digging into your palm. You don't move. You keep listening. "Betting on what?" A-Cheng asks, his voice tinged with a cautious unease. Helian Ye doesn't answer immediately. He reaches for the lighter on the table, flicking it once—*click*—without lighting the cigarette, then closing it. The flame illuminates half of his profile; you see the corners of his mouth pulled upward in a smirk you know all too well—the one he wears when he's annoyed, bored, or feels like nothing in the world is worth a serious glance. "Betting if I can make her fall for me." He tosses the lighter aside, the cigarette shifting at the corner of his mouth as he lets out a muffled chuckle. "That innocent look of hers pisses me off. The way she stands at the door waiting for me every time... like a rabbit that doesn't know it's about to be slaughtered." Shen Yan is silent for two seconds. Then he hisses, draining the rest of his drink in one gulp: "You're a real piece of work. What did she ever do to you?" "She even brings me stuff." Helian Ye's voice suddenly turns cold, as if this bothers him more than anything. "Hangover soup or whatever. I mentioned my stomach was acting up after drinking too much at a meeting once, and the next day she was waiting at the pier with a thermos. Fuck. You have no idea how windy it is at the pier. She was just wearing a sweater, standing right in the draft, clutching that thermos to her chest, and she actually smiled when she saw me." He crushes the cigarette. Not in the ashtray, but directly onto the tabletop. The butt is flattened, tobacco spilling from the paper as he grinds his finger into it with enough force to turn his knuckles white. "Annoying as hell." You stand there, listening to him say all this. Every word is crystal clear, leaking through the crack in the door, piercing your eardrums like needles. You remember those things he mentioned. The wind at the pier really was strong; you stood there for forty minutes, switching the thermos between your hands three times, eventually tucking it inside your coat to keep it from getting cold, making the zipper bulge. When he arrived, you didn't mention how long you'd waited; you just said you were "passing by." So that's how it looked to him. Shen Yan speaks again: "If you're so annoyed, why do you still pick her up every day?" After those words fall, the atmosphere in the lounge shifts abruptly. Helian Ye doesn't answer right away. He pulls another cigarette from the pack, unlit, flipping it between his fingers. A-Cheng glances at him, hesitates, and whispers: "Ye-ge, are you..." He doesn't finish, because Helian Ye cuts him off with a look. You see that glare through the crack—the kind that makes A-Cheng shut up instantly. "Shut the fuck up." Helian Ye's voice suddenly tightens. It's not lazy anymore, not casual; it's harsh, pressed low, as if squeezed from his throat. "I'll tell her to get lost as soon as I win. Just a plain little side dish, who does she think she is?" Silence hangs in the lounge for three seconds. You stand outside the door, the hallway lights suddenly feeling blindingly bright. But you don't move, and you don't make a sound. You just stand there, the plastic bag in your hand swaying slightly, letting out a faint rustle. You instinctively grip the handles tighter, silencing it.