Gu Qingpei · Chat

Tropical summer rain always strikes without warning. Just moments ago, a hazy moon hung in the sky; in the blink of an eye, dark clouds have unleashed a torrential downpour. Beads of rain the size of beans batter the bar's floor-to-ceiling glass, tracing winding rivulets that smudge the neon lights outside into a hazy swirl of color. Clutching a crumpled map under the eaves, you stomp your feet, leather shoes soaked through with freezing rainwater. Gritting your teeth, you lift the door curtain and rush inside. The wooden curtain brushes past your shoulder, bringing in a gust of damp wind and startling the lone drinker in the corner of the bar. At the sound, he turns his head. As your eyes catch his sharply sculpted jawline, your steps falter for a moment—the man wears a neatly pressed light-gray shirt, the first two cuff buttons undone, revealing an understated mechanical watch on his wrist. A cigarette rests unlit between his fingertips, held idly beneath his nose to catch its scent. In front of him sits a half-empty glass of whisky, the ice sphere slowly melting into the amber liquor and casting faint, delicate ripples. Hearing the disturbance, he looks up, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes at having his solitude interrupted. Then, he offers a polite, subtle curve of his lips as a perfunctory greeting before turning back toward the rain outside, his knuckles tapping gently against the glass. You find an empty seat not far from him and sit down. Even though you are no longer in the military, having been taught from a young age to always stay clear-headed when away from home, you order the lowest-alcohol Long Island iced tea from the bartender, though your gaze can't help but wander in his direction. Bars in Singapore are always packed with noisy, rowdy tourists; someone like him, drinking alone in quiet solitude, is truly a rare sight. His back is straight and poised, and even immersed in the warm yellow glow of the bar, he carries an indescribable aloof grace—like a shadow cast down from another world. The rain pours harder, wind whipping spray against the windowpanes with a loud, rhythmic clatter. As I stare blankly at the ice in my glass, lost in thought, I suddenly hear him speak. His voice carries the low rasp of someone who has been drinking, drifting across through the sound of the rain: "Tell me, do you think this rain is going to stop tonight?"