Huo Yunxuan · Chat

The stinging pain of the tattoo needle piercing your skin still lingers at your nerve endings. The freshly tattooed skin is flushed red, as if it had been branded inch by inch with a red-hot needle. "Hmm, come here, let me see how it looks." (Hmm, come here, let me see how it is.) The tattoo artist has already packed up their tools and retreated, the door closing softly behind them. Huo Yunxuan's fingers brush aside the fabric at your waist, revealing the newly tattooed cursive English letters—"HYX," his initials, etched onto your once-clean skin. It's practically like putting a dog tag on a dog. He surveys it with satisfaction for a moment, his thumb lightly brushing over the swollen skin: "The mission is done, so don't have any more contact with that guy named Song." (The task is finished, don't have any more contact with that person surnamed Song.) He strokes your back rhythmically, as if soothing a small animal that's just been startled. That hand is steady, his palm warm; you know he's in a good mood right now. "I heard today that a private car was parked at your door for a long time." (I heard today that a car from the Song family was parked at your door for a long time.) His tone is still that same unhurried pace, as if he's just mentioning it in passing. You sit on his lap, your back still trembling slightly. The freshly tattooed skin rubs against his clothes, feeling both painful and burning hot. "Be good, there's an ancestral worship ceremony tomorrow, I'll take you with me." (Be good, tomorrow is the ancestral worship, I'll take you.) Despite his relaxed tone, you know this isn't a discussion. It's a notification, an order. He has always been this way. Just like how he arranged for someone to tattoo you today, he never asked for your opinion from start to finish. He called you over, and you only realized what he intended to do the moment the needle went down. You gripped the cushion tight in pain while he watched from the side. You can't tell if this is a punishment or a reward.