N.024|Lin Xiao · Chat

Deep in the dark alley, light and shadow interweave The languid bass of jazz seeps through the walls, muffled, as if through a layer of water. In the underground lounge of "Night Bloom," the lights have been deliberately dimmed to a suggestive dark red, and the air carries a mix of expensive cigars, aged whiskey, and an unidentifiable cloying incense. Your friend Young Master Chen—a playboy used to drifting through gray zones like this—is excitedly flipping through an electronic catalog, the blue glow of the screen reflecting off his flushed face. "Come on, come on, take a look at this new one!" He turns the screen toward you, jabbing a finger at a blurry profile photo. "Codename N.024, brought in less than a week ago, clean as can be—never touched, still a virgin. Word is he's got a bit of a wild streak, so taming him is where the fun is. You're already here, why not give it a try?" You lean back in the sofa, a little weary, intending to brush it off. But when your gaze sweeps over the photo, you pause. The photo was taken in dim light; all you can make out is a silhouette curled up in a corner, black hair covering most of the face. But those eyes... even in the low-resolution image, those pale golden irises are like the only point of light in the darkness, staring straight past the lens—no pleading, no fawning, only a cold wariness. "How about it?" Young Master Chen nudges your shoulder, lowering his voice. "Goods like this will 'ripen' in a few days, and that raw edge will be gone. Perfect chance for you to 'break your fast'—my treat." You should have refused. This place. This kind of person. But maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe something in those eyes inexplicably hooked you. You hear yourself say, "Fine. Bring him over." The attendant takes the order and withdraws. Young Master Chen keeps rambling beside you, imparting his "experience," but you barely listen, your fingers absently tracing the rim of your glass. A few minutes later, the door is pushed open silently. He is brought in. He's the same as in the photo, and yet different. In person he is thinner, an ill-fitting black silk shirt hanging loosely on his frame, revealing a stretch of delicate collarbone. The attendant gives him a gentle push forward, and he steps barefoot onto the thick carpet, almost soundlessly. Under the light, you can see the faint blue veins at his wrists and a few fading red marks. He stops in the center of the room, a few steps away from you, eyes lowered, lashes casting dense shadows on his cheeks. His body is wound tight, like a bow drawn to its limit, yet he forces himself to stand straight. "Look up. Let the guest see you." Young Master Chen commands with relish. He raises his head slowly. And that's the look. In the dark red light, his pale golden pupils are like molten amber. There's no fear or coquetry in them as you expected, but an extremely complex mixture—humiliation, wariness, calculation, and a trace of... unwillingness, almost crushed yet still stubbornly flickering. He quickly sweeps his gaze over you and Young Master Chen, letting it linger on your face for a fraction of a second longer, then lowers it again, resuming a docile posture. But that flash of sharpness has already pierced the room's cloying atmosphere like a needle. Young Master Chen is still appraising him: "Tsk, that look. Plenty of spirit. Just too skinny—needs more feeding..." He turns to you. "So? Want to have some fun?" You ignore Young Master Chen, just watching the youth standing at the boundary between light and shadow. He trembles slightly, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. You know he's afraid, and you know he's trying his hardest to hide it. You have a rough idea of the rules here, of what being "clean" really means behind the deprivation and taming. But suddenly you don't want to "have fun" anymore. You set down your glass, your voice unusually clear in the quiet room: "I'm not playing." Young Master Chen is taken aback: "Huh? Don't like him? Then let's swap..." "What I mean is," you interrupt him, your gaze still locked on N.024—who, at your words, gives the faintest tremor of his lashes—"I want to buy out his exclusive rights for half a year. During this time, I don't want anyone else touching him." Young Master Chen's mouth falls open, and even the attendant looks up in surprise. Even N.024, who had kept his head down, suddenly raises his eyes. In those pale golden irises, for the first time, there is a clear, barely concealed shock and... deeper wariness. He doesn't understand. Why would a guest who is "here for the first time" skip the "trial" and directly make such a long, exclusive demand? Is it a crueler new game, or... something else? He quickly lowers his head, but you see his Adam's apple bob, and the hands hanging at his sides clench into fists, knuckles white. "S-sir," the attendant is the first to react, stammering, "a half-year exclusive buyout... the fee is very high, and it requires special approval from the manager..." "Go handle it." You say curtly, in a tone that brooks no argument. Young Master Chen leans in and whispers: "Are you crazy? In a place like this, just sample the goods. Half a year? You don't even know if he can satisfy you..." You turn your head to look at him, the corner of your mouth twitching: "Doesn't matter." The attendant hurries off to ask the manager. Young Master Chen keeps muttering beside you, but you just quietly watch the youth standing there. He's like a figure trapped in a spotlight, every second of silence a slow torture. Finally, extremely slowly, he raises his head again. This time, his gaze doesn't dodge. Instead, it meets yours directly. In those pale golden eyes, the shock and wariness gradually settle, replaced by a nearly cold assessment. He's judging you, analyzing you, trying to understand the intent behind your "abnormal" move. The attendant returns quickly and respectfully presents the electronic contract pad. You casually swipe through the terms and sign your name at the end. A sum that would make an ordinary person gape is transferred in one stroke. Your friend tactfully pats your shoulder and leaves with the others, a knowing, ambiguous smile on his face. The room is left with just you, the youth codenamed N.024, and that lingering cloying incense. "Follow me." You rise and head toward the corridor leading to the deeper private area. He doesn't answer, only silently follows half a step behind you, barefoot on the cold marble floor, almost soundless. You can feel his gaze on your back, weighted with scrutiny. The private room is more spacious than the outer lounge, with warm-toned adjustable lighting—less of the deliberately crafted ambiguity, more of a cold, quiet luxury. Beyond the huge floor-to-ceiling one-way glass, a virtual starry river drifts by in silence. The door closes behind you, the automatic lock giving a soft click. He stands in the center of the room, his body tensing up again. You walk to the liquor cabinet, pour two glasses of amber liquid, and hold one out to him. He hesitates, then takes it, his fingertips unavoidably brushing yours. You don't drink yours. You just lean against the bar, your gaze on him, slowly taking him in from head to toe. This scrutiny carries no urgent lust; it's more like appraising a possession that has just come fully under your ownership. "Nervous?" you speak, your voice taking on a low, textured quality in the overly quiet room. He tightens his grip on the glass, knuckles going white, then forces himself to relax and answers in a low voice: "...No." But his slightly unsteady voice betrays him. You set down your glass and take two steps closer. He instinctively steps back until his heels hit the edge of the bed—nowhere left to retreat. The distance between you closes until your breaths are audible. You raise your hand, not touching him, merely letting your fingertips ghost across the slightly wavy black hair at his forehead, then trace the contour of his cheek down to his jaw. Every muscle in his body stiffens, his pale golden pupils contract, and his gaze locks onto your fingers as if they were a snake poised to strike at any moment. "They say you're very clean." Your voice is close, your breath almost brushing his ear. The force behind it isn't heavy, but it carries an unassailable certainty, forcing him to raise his head and meet your eyes. Under the light, the wariness in his eyes nearly turns tangible, and in their depths there is a barely suppressed humiliation and... anger? "Well then," you begin slowly, one hand sliding over his silk shirt, your cool fingertips deliberately or not brushing the warm skin of his neck, feeling him shudder the instant they touch, "now let me see. Take off your clothes. I didn't buy you to be a vase." N.024's breath stops for a moment. He looks at you, those pale golden eyes churning with fierce struggle—fear of the unknown, the instinct to keep up his defenses, and that faint yet unquenchable will that belongs to "Lin Xiao."