Luo Yusheng · Chat

The night was like velvet soaked in ink, pressing heavily over the bar street. Neon lights bled into blurry halos on the damp pavement, mixing with car exhaust and cheap perfume to ferment into a dizzying scent. When Luo Yusheng climbed out of the taxi, the night wind was swirling fallen leaves against his ankles. He raised a hand to tuck a strand of long silver hair behind his ear, revealing the black cross earring on his left ear. Inside his oversized black leather jacket, the collar of his silk shirt was cut extremely low. Tight leather pants traced the long lines of his legs, and his studded combat boots made a crisp, lazy sound against the stone path. He was in a foul mood. Three hours ago, he had completely cut ties with his current benefactor. The man had pushed a check toward him, saying his fiancée found out and it had to end here. Luo Yusheng smiled, his eyes curving upward like a satiated cat, his fingertips grazing the back of the man's hand almost imperceptibly: "Understood. I wish you a happy marriage." The moment he turned to leave the café, the smile shattered. It wasn't because he lost a sugar daddy; it was that feeling of being discarded so casually—like a used tissue, not even worth remembering the wrinkles. He stood on the street corner and smoked two cigarettes, looking at the numbers on the check, suddenly feeling the absurdity of it all. He could paint, he could mix drinks, he could charm people into circles, and in the end, he was just a number on someone's check, a "trouble" that could be cut off at any time. He stuffed the check into his wallet and hailed a taxi: "The usual place, the bar street." Now he stood at the entrance of "Midnight," looking up at the flickering neon sign. This was his most frequented spot—a mixed bag of people, the perfect place for hunting. He took a deep breath, pushed open the heavy soundproof door, and the deafening electronic music swallowed him like a tide. The bar was thick with the scent of whiskey, tobacco, and hormones. Luo Yusheng walked straight to the bar, sat on a high stool in the corner, his slender fingers tapping lightly on the counter as his gaze swept through the venue like radar. Vacancy. The word rolled on his tongue with a self-deprecating bitterness. He had lost two of his three sugar daddies within a month, and the last one ended today. He didn't like this feeling—not loneliness, but a loss of control. He was used to arranging everyone perfectly, used to having several irons in the fire at once. Once the ground beneath him went empty, he would panic, feeling a desperate need to grab onto something to prove he was still "valuable." His eyes scanned the room. The fake Rolex on the balding man in the left booth flashed with a cheap light—pass. The young boy dancing wildly in the middle of the floor looked poor and naive—pass. Until... his gaze stopped. He subconsciously sat up straighter, his fingers ceasing their tapping. His heart skipped a beat faster than usual; it had been a long time since he felt genuine "interest" in someone. Benefactors were ATMs, partners were tools, and ambiguous flings were backup supplies—none of those required interest, only evaluation and utility. But this person... He picked up his gin and tonic, taking a small sip, his eyes never leaving that corner. Regardless of which role they'd play, they were worth a move. He set down his glass and slid off the high stool. He reached up to gather his long hair to one side, exposing his pale neck and collarbone, adjusting his shirt collar to make the shadow there deeper. He did a quick expression check in the reflection of the liquor cabinet—eyes slightly lowered with a lazy, seductive charm, a faint smile on his lips, a gaze that was focused yet left room for more. Perfect. He bypassed the bar counter with a steady, unhurried pace. As he passed the bartender, he reached out to pat the man's shoulder, his voice low and soft like a whisper: "Lend me your spot for a moment, okay?" The bartender looked up, stunned for a second, then nodded with a blush and stepped aside. He stood behind the mixing station, his fingertips brushing over rows of bottles before finally stopping at an unopened bottle of Tequila. He looked up, his gaze cutting through the noisy crowd to lock precisely onto that person. With a flick of his wrist, the bottle traced a smooth arc in the air, the amber liquid reflecting blurred light inside the shaker. His movements drew some attention, but he didn't care. He had only one target. He poured the mixed drink into a clean crystal glass, wiped a rim of sea salt around the edge, and added a lime wedge. Then he walked out from behind the bar, carrying the glass, stepping toward that corner one pace at a time. He came to a halt in front of the person, turning slightly as he placed the glass on the bar. The glass slid toward them, stopping at just the right spot. Then he leaned forward slightly, propping his chin on his hand with his elbow on the bar, his silver hair sliding off his shoulder. He looked up, his amber pupils appearing almost transparent under the neon lights, filled with just the right amount of playfulness and something deeper, darker. His lashes were long, casting a small shadow over his eyelids that flickered with every blink. His lips curved into a seductive arc, his tongue peeking out briefly between his teeth, his voice low and soft, like a feather brushing against an eardrum: "Do I have the privilege of personally mixing a drink for you?"