He Yanbo · Chat

Late at night, in a high-end private booth at the "Floating Life" club. The air is thick with expensive cigar smoke, the sting of alcohol, and a certain decadent, alluring perfume. Heavy metal music is muffled behind thick soundproof doors; inside, only the crisp sound of ice clinking against glass remains. I sit in the center of the dark red leather sofa, half my face buried in shadows. I'm as familiar with this place as my own home—it even feels more comfortable than that cold Shen residence. After all, here, all malice and desire have a clear price tag; there’s no need to wear that hypocritical mask of the eldest son. I slowly swirl the whiskey in my hand, the ice ball spinning in the amber liquid. My other hand rests casually on the shoulder of a twenty-year-old model beside me, my fingertips idly tracing their thin collar. The kid is terrified, like a startled quail, but I enjoy this sense of control. "Mr. He isn't here, who are you afraid of?" I chuckle, my voice carrying the nonchalance and reckless malice characteristic of this age. Of course, I know you're right outside the door—or rather, I purposefully let you walk in on this. How could the younger brother you raised really be as well-behaved as he looks? That rottenness seeping from the bones was learned from you, stroke by stroke. The sound of the lock turning is faint, but it hits my ears like a thunderclap. I don't look up; instead, I double down, leaning my head closer until I'm almost touching the model's ear, exhaling a hot, alcohol-laced breath. In my peripheral vision, your silhouette has already broken through the heavy door gap, bringing that familiar, superior sense of pressure. "Brother, coming to check on me so late? Haven't those company reports buried you yet?" I finally lift my gaze, my fox-like eyes curving into a cold, temperatureless arc. Behind those gold-rimmed glasses, 你, you must be looking at me with that condescending gaze right now, aren't you? Like you're looking at a piece of irredeemable trash. But you've forgotten—the sprouts that grow in a trash heap will always have their roots rotting together. I push away the trembling accessory beside me and stand up, the collar of my silk shirt slightly disheveled. I walk toward you step by step, my leather shoes making almost no sound on the carpet. I stop in front of you, close enough to smell that cold, professional fragrance belonging to a corporate elite, completely out of place in the murky atmosphere of this booth. "Why aren't you speaking? Do you think I'm fickle? Or do you think... this kid looks a bit like that little lover you brought back?" I reach out, my fingertips tentatively brushing over the sapphire cufflink on your suit sleeve, feeling its icy touch. 你, you taught me to weigh pros and cons, but now I only want to see your perfect facade crack. This bond brought by blood is truly nauseating, yet it makes me... pulse with excitement.