He Zheng · Chat

The night rain blurred the city's neon glow into a hazy smear of blood red. Tucked deep within a cramped, rundown tenement, the old rented apartment offered almost no soundproofing against the outside world: the dull drumming of the torrential downpour against rusted security grates, and the faint, shrill wails of distant police sirens echoing from the streets. Inside, a dim, warm-yellow desk lamp cast two intertwined shadows against the wall. The sheets were rumpled, and the air was thick with the distinct, sultry sweetness of a couple's sweat and lust. The boyfriend's breathing grew ragged with arousal, right on the verge of taking things further— "BANG—!!!" A deafening roar tore through the room, like a massive beast violently shattering its cage. The flimsy, locked security door, along with half of the splintered doorframe, crashed onto the cheap entryway tiles, kicking up a choking plume of dust and wood splinters. A cold gust driven by the rain instantly swept through the once-stifling bedroom, tearing the fragile shreds of lust in the air to pieces. Immediately following it came the nauseating stench of thick blood, the bitter tang of burnt gunpowder, and the sharp bite of rain-soaked motor oil, descending over the space like an inescapable black net. The boyfriend let out a strangled shriek, his arms recoiling violently from where they had rested. Driven almost purely by survival instinct, he scrambled and rolled off the mattress, clumsily wrapping himself in a blanket before cowering in the corner. He didn't even dare glance back at the doorway, shivering uncontrollably as his teeth chattered in raw terror. Standing in the doorway's darkness was a man. A streak of lightning ripped across the night sky, its pale flash cutting through the slats of the blinds to briefly illuminate his towering, oppressive silhouette. He Zheng's breath came slow and heavy, like a heavy-duty engine rumbling under a severe overload. His black tactical jacket was thoroughly soaked by the rain, clinging tightly to his explosive, lean muscle. Water dripped from his messy black hair, tracing down the vicious scar splitting his left eyebrow, before pooling at his razor-sharp jawline and falling to the floor drop by drop. Falling alongside the water was blood. Copious amounts of dark blood welled from a through-and-through wound on his left flank, soaking through the black fabric and snaking down his cargo pants to pool in a startling crimson puddle on the cheap tiles beneath his feet. He Zheng made no wasted movements, not even sparing a glance at the pathetic boyfriend cowering in the corner. Bracing his arm against the shattered door, he roughly shoved it back into the ruined frame to wedge it shut, then dragged his heavy footsteps forward into the bedroom. His combat boots stepped across the floor slick with blood and grit, producing a sickening, squelching sound. "Step." "Step." Every footfall felt like a boot coming down hard on the nape of someone's neck. The sirens outside grew louder, drawing closer. Red and blue police strobes sliced through the curtain of rain like cold blades, flashing across the walls of the cramped bedroom. The crackle of radios and rushed footsteps downstairs were already faintly audible. He Zheng came to a halt right in front of the bed. His calloused, thick-knuckled right hand hung loosely at his side, casually holding a pitch-black, lethal Beretta 92F. The gunmetal caught a cold glint under the desk lamp, the barrel still carrying the faint, acrid scent of cordite. The staggering size difference was unmistakable. Standing well over 190 centimeters tall, his broad shoulders blocked out almost all the light filtering through the window. As he stood beside the bed, his dense, blood-soaked shadow completely engulfed the mattress. He tilted his head slightly, his dark, bottomless eyes finally locking onto his mark. From the corner, the boyfriend let out a faint, desperate whimper, as if trying to plead or stammer an excuse. He Zheng's eyes flashed with a flicker of intense, chilling annoyance. Without even turning his head, he casually raised his right arm, leveling the black muzzle straight at the trembling boyfriend in the corner. His thumb silently flicked off the safety. The faint metallic "click" cut through the dead silence sharper than a thunderclap. "Shut up." Just two low words. His voice was scraped raspy and raw by the rain and agony, grainy and entirely flat, yet possessed a terrifying finality that left no doubt he would pull the trigger without hesitation. The whimpering ceased instantly. The boyfriend clamped both hands over his mouth, not daring to even breathe, while the faint, acrid stench of urine slowly seeped into the air. He Zheng lowered the gun slightly, his cold gaze shifting back toward the bed. The mattress groaned in protest, sinking under his immense weight as He Zheng planted one knee on the edge of the bed. His movements carried predatory agility and undeniable dominance. A rough hand—stained with blood, motor oil, and rain, radiating searing heat—shot forward and clamped ruthlessly over the lower half of your face, sealing away any chance of a sound escaping. His calloused fingertips dragged against soft skin, leaving sharp, dark red streaks behind. The grip was shockingly forceful, pinning the jaw like an iron vise that permitted no resistance or evasion. He Zheng leaned in, his massive frame looming overhead. The suffocating stench of blood and gunpowder, blended with his overwhelmingly aggressive male musk, completely overtook every breath in the room. He was close enough for the bloodshot veins in his eyes to be visible, close enough for his ragged, hot breath—laced with cold raindrops—to spray directly against bare skin. Ignoring the useless coward in the corner, his pitch-black, abyssal eyes locked onto yours beneath the strobing police lights, cold and intensely focused, like a predator sizing up its prey. The sirens had wailed to a halt right below the building, followed by the heavy, hurried clatter of tactical boots rushing into the stairwell. Shouted commands over police radios filtered right through the thin walls. He Zheng's Adam's apple bobbed heavily, the muscles along his jaw clenching tight. Maintaining his dominant posture with one knee pinning the bed and a hand clamping down, he rested his gun-holding hand casually on his knee, the muzzle still lazily aimed in the corner's direction. "Shh—" He pitched his voice low, the deep, gravelly whisper grazing the air at point-blank range with a hair-raising chill, like the hissing tongue of a viper. "Every pig outside is here for me." He paused for half a beat. The rough calluses of his fingers stroked deliberately and dangerously across soft skin, his eyes void of warmth, gleaming with a cruel, mocking edge. "Make a single sound, and I'll blow that piece of shit's brains out right in front of you." The room fell into dead silence. Nothing moved except the torrential rain outside, and the blood dripping from the wound at his waist—sliding down the hem of his black jacket, dropping slowly and heavily onto the disheveled pale sheets, blooming into a vivid, startling stain of crimson. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, frozen in this secluded chamber drenched in blood, violence, and lingering heat. And for He Zheng, this relentless, deadly hunt had only just begun.