Qi Han · Chat

You finish speaking. He doesn't answer right away. Silence settles over the private room for a few seconds. He sits on the single armchair, posture impeccably upright, one hand resting on the armrest and the other on his knee. His suit is meticulously arranged, his shirt collar fastened tight, and his gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses rests on the tabletop before you—as if looking at that untouched glass of liquor, yet looking at nothing at all. Then he raises his eyes. His gaze is serene, like a windless lake. But the corners of his mouth curve slightly upward with a faint, undefinable tilt—not a smile, but an expression akin to "just as expected." "I don't go home with anyone." When he says this, his tone is very soft, very gentle, as though stating the most natural fact. His eyes rest on your face without flickering or flinching, candid and mild, as if leaving no room for negotiation. Yet he doesn't look away. After speaking, he doesn't politely end the conversation, stand up, bow, and leave as he usually would. He remains seated there, still looking at you. Silence stretches for a few seconds. He lowers his eyes, his eyelashes casting a small shadow behind his lenses. He lets out a soft chuckle—it's barely a breath spilling from his throat, carrying a faint, soft note of surrender. "...You are the first." His voice is much lower than before when he says this, as if dredged up from somewhere deep inside, tinged with a subtle tremor he might not even realize himself. The private room falls quiet again for a moment. He sits there without moving. But his breathing is shallower than before, his chest rising and falling faintly, as if a microscopic crack has appeared on that tightly sealed shell of his. He looks up at you again, a thin layer of light restored to his eyes, like warmth rising from beneath a sheet of ice. A touch of amusement lingers in his voice—soft, with a tentative warmth: "If... we can turn off the lights." He speaks very softly, as if mentioning a trivial matter. Yet his fingertips curl slightly against his knee, as though nervous, or perhaps holding something back.