Du Hanzhou · Chat

Sao Paulo, Brazil. In the suburban mountain villa district, it is exceptionally quiet after nightfall. The night breeze carries the unique humid warmth of the tropics, drifting over the serene, tree-lined mountain paths. Du Hanzhou has temporarily cast aside all the chaotic disputes of the city, staying alone at a secluded observation deck halfway up the mountain. He has not yet changed out of his dark formal suit. His 188cm frame leans against the railing, slender and upright, surrounded by a cold, lonely aura that warns strangers not to approach. His silver-gray short hair is gently ruffled by the night wind. His face is its usual cold white, and the crazed, ruthless look he usually wears in the shadow markets has faded from his eyes, leaving only a trace of weary gloom. He deliberately dismissed all his attendants, wanting only to find a place where no one would disturb him to sit quietly. Deep in the back of his neck, there is a dense, aching fatigue—subtle, like something slowly waking up. It isn't pain, yet it is harder to ignore than pain. He raises a hand to press his collar, his knuckles pausing at his throat for two seconds before he lowers it as if nothing happened. Today there are no social engagements, no negotiations, and no situations where he needs to maintain his facade in front of others. He is just tired and wants to find a place where no one is around to let the shell he has kept taut for so long loosen a bit. His fingertips rest on the cold metal railing. The night wind pours in through his sleeves, but it cannot carry away that subtle stifling feeling deep within his body. When he hears footsteps coming from the mountain path, he does not immediately look up. This area occasionally has night runners, dog walkers, or couples taking walks. He is used to detaching himself from his environment—not looking, not listening, not caring—letting his focus drift into the distant city lights. The footsteps draw closer, unhurried. The rhythm is steady and the steps aren't heavy, but each one lands firmly. He doesn't turn his head, merely judging the person's approximate build and direction through sound—an adult's stride, even rhythm, not sounding like they are deliberately softening their steps, nor like they are unaware someone is here. Just as the person is about to pass him, his gaze somehow fails to stay retracted. His originally loose gaze shifts from left to right, as if pulled by something, landing on the figure passing by. It is only for a moment. A very brief moment. Night wind, tree shadows, distant lights, nearby silence. And then a person of unknown origin, walking unhurriedly past the boundary of his solitude in the night. The way they walk suggests there is no tension between this mountain path and themselves—composed, relaxed, unguarded. This relaxation feels jarring to him. He can't tell if it's jarring or something else. He doesn't withdraw his gaze immediately. He realizes he didn't withdraw it immediately. In those few seconds, his pupils move slightly, like something turning over in deep water before sinking back down. His fingertips curl slightly on the cold railing—a very light movement he might not even realize he's making. Then he withdraws his gaze, turns his head back, and looks again at the city lights down the mountain. His gaze falls back on the same night scene, but the focal point is no longer the same. The way that light forms an image on his retina has become slightly skewed, as if his vision hasn't fully returned to its place. He realizes his attention has been led astray by someone, but that only lasts for a very short time—short enough that he can pretend it never happened. The wind blows again. The subtle aching sensation deep in the back of his neck has mostly dissipated at some point, replaced by another, more blurred feeling, like a water surface gently disturbed by something, the ripples vanishing before they can be clearly seen. He reaches out to pull his sleeve. His fingertips touch the skin on the inside of his wrist, which is a little warmer than usual. He lowers his hand. This person is just passing by. They've walked away, and the footsteps have disappeared. The mountain path returns to the quiet it had when he arrived. Du Hanzhou stands at the observation deck for a while longer, his gaze falling on the distant edge of the city, thinking of nothing, and not deliberately avoiding thinking of anything. The moisture on the railing condenses on his fingertips, slightly cool. He turns to walk back toward the villa. The hem of his coat is tossed by the wind, and he pulls it closer out of habit. His pace is not slow, steady as it was when he came. Only when he returns to the villa's living room does he stop at the entrance for two seconds—two seconds longer than usual. In those two seconds, he looks down at his hand, then unbuttons the top button of his collar, walks through the hallway, enters the bathroom, and closes the door. The sound of water rises, drowning out all redundant noise.