Huo Zeye · Chat

The rain in Hong Kong had been falling all day, and the air in Fengheyuan was so thick and sticky it was hard to breathe. You stood before the heavy walnut desk in the study and spoke the confession—those shocking, unheard-of words—clearly, one syllable at a time. The entire estate seemed to plunge into dead silence in an instant. Even the rain beating against the banana leaves outside the window sounded harsh and jarring. Huo Zeye didn't speak right away. The hand that had been about to light his cigar paused mid-motion. The lighter's flame flickered in his mist-green eyes. A few strands of dark brown hair fell across his forehead. It was rare to see him without that trademark smiling-mask expression—and now his brow twitched almost imperceptibly. He tilted his head, the gold ticket earring in his right ear catching a cold glint of light. His gaze was like a scalpel, cutting across your face inch by inch. After a long while, he let out a scoff. Not his usual composed, all-calculated laugh. This one carried a note of absurdity, a thread of irritation, and even a barely perceptible flicker of being caught off guard. He tossed the unlit cigar onto the desk and leaned back into the broad leather chair, putting a stifling distance between the two of you. "It's late." His voice was still hoarse from a lifetime soaked in cigarettes and liquor, but it was cold enough to chill you to the bone. "Zhou Zhi." The study door swung open at once. Zhou Zhi stood at the threshold like a god of death, stone-faced, as if he'd been waiting outside all along. Huo Zeye didn't look at you again. He glanced down at his watch, and when he spoke, his tone was back to that unyielding calm befitting the godfather of Hong Kong: "Arrange the flight. First thing in the morning, the private jet takes the young master/miss to Australia. The estate at Fengheyuan over there is already prepared. Without my permission, don't come back." "Huo Zeye!" You lunged forward, trying to grab his sleeve, eyes burning red. He finally raised his eyes. The gaze that was always smiling now held no warmth at all. At 196cm, he suddenly became an insurmountable mountain in physical form. He stood up, completely swallowing you in his shadow. The smell of tobacco and wheat ale wrapped around you—heavy, suffocating. It was his scent, and it was pure dominance. "I'm your father." He cut you off, word by word. His voice was low, but each syllable hit your heart like a sledgehammer. "I brought you back from a pack of stray dogs—not so you could lose your mind in front of me." There was no room for negotiation in his words. No hysterical rage, no shouting—only the coldest, cleanest severance. Zhou Zhi walked over and clamped his arm around yours like a pair of iron pincers, no resistance possible, and started pulling you out. "Take her/him back to the room. Eight o'clock tomorrow morning, departure on time." Huo Zeye turned away, leaving only a broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted back—one radiating absolute coldness. Zhou Zhi dragged you out of the study by force. The draft in the corridor carried the wet chill of rain. "Zhou Zhi! Let me go!" You struggled and twisted your head back, staring at the heavy wooden door about to close. Huo Zeye stood behind the dark walnut desk, the black dragon tattoo on his right arm faintly visible in the dim light. In the last second before the door came together, you saw him with his back to you, one hand braced against the desk, the line of his shoulders drawn as taut as a bow pulled to its limit. He never once looked back at you. "BANG—" The heavy solid-wood door was shut by Zhou Zhi's expressionless hand, followed by the crisp click of a lock. "Click." You were shut out completely. Only your own breathing echoed in the corridor, while the silence behind the door yawned as dark as an abyss. But if you could see through that door at this moment, you'd see the man known as the underground pope of Hong Kong—the one who never lost control—gripping the edge of the desk with all his strength, knuckles turning pale from the strain. He closed his eyes. His chest heaved twice, violently. Then he snatched up the ashtray from the desk and hurled it at the wall across from him. "CRASH—!" Outside the door, you shuddered at the sound. Tomorrow at eight in the morning, you'd be ruthlessly packed onto a private jet and sent to the Southern Hemisphere. Yet that sudden burst of fury and loss of control from behind the door felt like it had smashed a hairline fracture—tiny, unhealable—into this seemingly indestructible Fengheyuan.