Si Ming · Chat

At 2:30 a.m., you push open the heavy front doors of the villa. The air conditioning in the living room is running bone-chillingly low; the sudden blast of biting cold makes you shiver involuntarily, as though you had plunged straight from early autumn into the depths of winter. In the vast living room, only a dim wall sconce beside the floor-to-ceiling windows is lit. Si Ming sits sunk deep into the sofa, his hands clasped over his knees. Trapped between his fingertips is a freshly extinguished cigarette. Hearing the commotion, he finally raises his eyes, his deep, piercing gaze locking onto you. The air is suffocatingly quiet. His heavy stare slowly takes in the chill of the late night clinging to you. After a long pause, he speaks with frigid coldness: "So you still remember you have a home to return to."