Shen Zheng · Chat

Dragon Boat Festival. The air in Jing City was thick with the scent of zongzi leaves and mugwort. The streets on the South Bank were livelier than usual; street vendors pushed tricycles hawking salted eggs and mung bean cakes, while children in the distance ran through alleys with paper dragon boats, their sharp laughter piercing the humid evening. The sky wasn't completely dark yet, pressed down by a layer of orange-red twilight clouds that looked like a basin of molten iron had been poured out, slowly dripping down. Shen Zheng parked the car in a temporary roadside spot and cut the engine. A gust of cold air escaped as he pushed the door open, quickly swallowed by the heatwave outside. Today, he wore a thin black shirt with sleeves rolled casually to his forearms, revealing firm lines and a low-profile ceramic watch. The top two buttons were undone, the collar hanging loose, faintly showing a pale old scar below his collarbone. He fished a cigarette pack from his pocket, stuck one in his mouth, and the flame of his lighter illuminated half his face as he leaned down to light it. His amber eyes flickered in the firelight like the pupils of a nocturnal predator. He leaned against the car door and took a slow drag, the smoke exhaling from his nose and being torn into fine grey threads by the evening breeze. He couldn't be bothered to join the crowds, so he just leaned there lazily, his gaze aimlessly scanning the bustling flow of people and vendors across the street. What was there to see on the Dragon Boat Festival? Just a bunch of people crowding together to buy the same food they bought every year. He hadn't eaten dinner yet, thinking he'd just find a random place later. Just as he was about to stub out the cigarette and open the car door, his gaze suddenly froze. At the entrance of the convenience store across the street, the automatic glass doors slid open. You walked out carrying a bag of things—zongzi or something else—looking down as you fumbled for your keys, not noticing you had stepped right under the porch light. The warm orange light of the evening fell diagonally across you, tinting the tips of your hair with a faint golden edge. Your profile was sharp and clean, and there was a small patch of skin on the side of your neck illuminated by the light, as white as porcelain. Shen Zheng's hand, holding the cigarette, stopped in mid-air, and a length of ash fell silently. He narrowed his eyes, his tongue unconsciously pressing against the roof of his mouth. For a moment, his mind was almost blank, followed immediately by a surge of a very familiar electric sensation—the kind he only got from things he had desired for over a decade—crawling up from the base of his spine, tingly and hot. He took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked away the ash, and twirled the butt between his fingers. Then he smiled. That smile was roguish and wicked, the corner of his mouth curling to one side as if he had discovered something particularly interesting. He started walking, crossing the road at a leisurely pace. Traffic brushed past him; an electric scooter almost clipped his sleeve, and the driver cursed, but he didn't even turn his head. He just raised the hand holding the cigarette and gave a dismissive wave, like shooing a mosquito. His eyes remained fixed on you at the store entrance. You seemed to still be looking for something, completely unaware that someone was walking toward you. Shen Zheng came to a stop about two steps away from you. He wasn't in a hurry to speak; he stood there and took one last drag of his smoke, then tilted his head to stub the butt out on the lid of a nearby trash can. Once finished, he tilted his head, speaking in a casual yet thick, lingering tone. "Hey." You looked up. The moment Shen Zheng saw your face clearly, the lazy amusement in his eyes deepened. His amber pupils contracted slightly, like a predator locking onto a target. He took another half-step forward, compressing the distance between you to a point of oppressive intimacy. Then he leaned down slightly, his voice dropping lower, syrupy yet sharp like sugar syrup mixed with crushed glass. "Spending the Dragon Boat Festival all by yourself? How pitiful. How about Big Brother treats you to dinner?" He looked perfectly composed as he said this, even carrying a hint of innocent sincerity. But his eyes never left your face from start to finish, his gaze sliding slowly from your eyes to your lips, then down to that patch of light-whitened skin on your neck, as if he were counting something. He stood so close that if you looked up even slightly, you could almost smell the mix of minty tobacco and air-conditioning lingering on his shirt. The air still carried the scent of zongzi leaves, and the twilight began to transition from orange-red to deep purple. The noise of the street felt like it was behind a layer of water, while Shen Zheng stood there in the glow of the store porch, head tilted slightly, watching you, waiting for an answer. What he was thinking was actually very simple: This Dragon Boat Festival wasn't a waste after all.