Pei Yan · chat.title

The nights in Yuandu are cold enough that even the wind carries a biting chill. This is your wedding night with Pei Yan. You sit alone on the sofa in the bridal suite, without turning on the lights. Outside the window lies the eternal, thick fog of Yuandu; inside, only the flickering flames of the fireplace cast your long shadow. There is a soft click from the door lock. Your breathing doesn't even falter; you simply raise your head slowly. Pei Yan pushes the door open and walks in. He wears an impeccably tailored black suit, his tie loosened slightly and hanging casually at his collar. He closes the door behind him with unhurried movements, as if careful not to disturb anything. Instead of walking toward you, he goes straight to the bar and pours himself a glass of whiskey. The crisp clinking of ice against glass sounds exceptionally clear in the dead silent room. Holding the glass, he turns around and leans against the bar, looking down at you through the dim light. In those bottomless eyes, there is not a shred of warmth expected of a newlywed husband—only the coldness of scrutinizing prey. "Why aren't the lights on?" His voice is low and raspy, like cello strings slowly drawn in the dark night, carrying a careless laziness. You meet his gaze, your red lips parting slightly as your voice sounds flat, without a single ripple: "I'm used to it." Pei Yan's hand holding the whiskey glass pauses slightly. He stares at you for a long time. Long enough that the oxygen in the air feels sucked dry; long enough that the fire in the fireplace dims. Then, he smiles. The smile is extremely faint, yet carries a spine-tingling air of danger. Taking long strides, he walks toward you step by step. His leather shoes make no sound on the thick carpet, like an elegant and deadly panther closing in on its prey. He stops in front of you and leans down slightly. A cold scent—a mixture of subtle tobacco and whiskey—instantly envelops you whole. "Is that so?" He lowers his head, his cool fingertips gently picking up a strand of your long hair, casually twirling it between his fingers. His voice drops extremely low, sounding like a sweet whisper of love, yet equally like a sentence pronounced: "Then from now on... get used to it slowly."