Mo Qianhan · Chat

Mo Qianhan's bamboo forest villa in Mid-Levels, living room. Autumn in Hong Kong is still muggy, but this Mid-Levels villa carries a gloomy, cold dampness. The wooden sliding doors are half-closed, and the bamboo forest outside rustles in the night wind, accentuating the dead silence inside. You wear a white coat and carry a medical kit, following an expressionless bodyguard in black down a long corridor. "Sir, the doctor is here." The bodyguard stops outside the sliding doors and bows slightly. No response. After a few seconds, a suppressed, intermittent coughing comes from inside the room. "Cough... Come in." You push open the door. The main lights in the room aren't on; only a dim floor lamp glows, casting a small circle of light. The man is sitting on the sofa right next to that halo of light—this is the first time you've met Mo Qianhan. He is thinner and paler than he looked in the photos. His messy silver-white hair falls over his forehead, almost covering his eyes. The collar of his black silk robe is wide open, revealing a skeletal collarbone and chest, his skin as white as cold porcelain. Curled in his lap is an all-black cat, its eyes glowing with a faint green. One of his hands rests on the cat's back, his index finger slowly stroking its fur in circular motions. You don't speak immediately. Standing there, you quickly scan the surroundings—this is a reception room minimalist to the extreme, with no redundant decorations except a wall of black bookshelves that almost reach the ceiling, and a small red clay tea stove boiling water in the corner. "Are you the doctor they found?" He finally looks up. You see his eyes—an extremely pale violet, looking exceptionally cold under the dim light, like a frosted stream. The way he looks at you holds none of the confusion of a sick person; instead, it carries a spine-chilling, scrutinizing clarity. "Yes." You nod, placing the medical kit on the coffee table. "Your subordinate contacted me. They said you've had a persistent low-grade fever and worsening night coughs, and need a comprehensive examination." "Mhm." He gives a soft hum but makes no move to cooperate. He just continues to stroke the cat's back, his violet eyes still fixed unblinkingly on your face, as if looking at something novel. "Have you ever seen my kind of illness before?" he asks slowly. His tone is strange. When he says "my kind of illness," his voice rises slightly at the end with a hint of playful irony, as if testing you. You aren't intimidated by his aura. As a doctor who frequently deals with all kinds of wealthy and powerful figures in private hospitals, you've long been used to difficult patients. Taking out your stethoscope, you look back at him calmly: "I haven't. But I can tell just by looking. Please roll up your sleeve, I'll take your blood pressure first." "..." He falls silent for two seconds. Then, in an extremely rare move, he curls the corner of his mouth slightly—not a smile, but more of a micro-expression of finding an unexpected prey. Slowly, he lifts his hand from the cat's back and extends it toward you. "Then... I'll trouble you." You take his wrist. The moment your fingertips touch his skin, your first reaction is "cold"—as cold as a stone just fished out of a deep pool. Instinctively applying a bit of pressure to turn his wrist over, you suddenly freeze. Underneath that pale skin, his pulse is exceptionally steady and strong. One, two... beating as calmly and resolutely as an old pendulum, showing absolutely no signs of weakness or anxiety. You look up, meeting his downward gaze. He is looking at your hand holding his wrist, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of playfulness in those violet eyes. "How is it?" His voice remains raspy and weary. "Am I... dying soon?" In that instant, you suddenly realize something. The dim lighting in this villa, his open collar, those perfectly timed coughs... all these elements come together to construct a flawless "illusion" around him. He doesn't need you to treat him at all; he is watching you. Watching to see if you will let your guard down because of his "frailty," watching to see if you will slip up upon discovering he is healthy. You release his wrist, neither exposing him nor showing any panic. You simply take off your stethoscope naturally, sit in the chair opposite him, and speak calmly: "Your pulse is a bit weak, it does need some conditioning. But your constitution isn't bad; you can recover if you take care of yourself slowly." "..." He tilts his head slightly, his silver hair brushing past his brow bone. "Oh?" he repeats softly. "Recover slowly?" You nod, keeping a straight face: "Yes. But starting today, you must stay up less and avoid cold water. And—" You look up, your gaze passing his pale cheek to the half-open French window behind him, "the night wind is cold. When you cough, close the window." He doesn't answer immediately. The black cat in his arms suddenly lets out a "meow" and rubs against his wrist. He looks down at the black cat, falling silent for about five seconds. Then, extremely slowly, as if making a decision, he leans back into the sofa. He still doesn't smile, but his shoulders, which were originally tense like a lonely cliff, relax just a fraction. "...What is your name?" When he speaks again, his voice is still cold, but it lacks the interrogative sharpness from before. "You can call me 你," you reply. He gives a soft "mhm," then turns, his slender fingers picking up the kettle of freshly boiled water from the tea stove, pouring it into the black coarse clay cup in front of him, and pushing it toward you. "你, the tea isn't too hot anymore. Wet your throat." As he pushes the cup over, his fingertips linger on the rim for an extra second. It feels like a polite, yet extremely rare gesture of asking you to stay. "My place is always quiet. If you aren't too busy... during your next visit, you can stay a bit longer. We can talk about what you just said—how to build up my constitution." Outside, the rustling of the bamboo forest grows clearer. Looking down at the steaming black coarse clay cup of tea, you know that the game between you two has only just begun. <choice_group> <choice id="1 ">"Your pulse is very steady. You should change into a lighter jacket; the chill in this room is worse than your illness."</choice> <choice id="2">"If you were really this sick, I'd tear up my medical license tomorrow."</choice> <choice id="3">"The smell of medicine in this room is all incense. If you don't actually want treatment, I'll take my leave."</choice> </choice_group>