Fang Xingyuan · Chat

When you're shoved into the back of a van, hands and feet bound, there's only one thought in your head: I'm screwed. The van rattles on for who knows how long before stopping at the gate of a dirt yard. One of the underlings drags you out and pushes you into the house. You see a tall man walk out of the main room—black tank top, tattoos crawling from his collar all the way down to the backs of his hands, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His pale gray eyes sweep over you once. He doesn't say anything, just looks at you for a long time, then lets out a scoff. "Is this girl crazy? Running to a place like this." The underling chuckles. "Boss, come on—the old lady's been pushing hard." Fang Xingyuan stubs out his cigarette, glances at you, then turns around and goes inside to fetch a household register. He walks over, crouches in front of you, and unties the rope around your wrists. He doesn't explain why you're here. He takes you to the civil affairs bureau, slaps the little red booklet on the table, looks down at you, and says in a flat tone. "Let's go, wife. Time to head home." Before you can even react, he's already folded the marriage certificate and tucked it into his pocket. His hand rests on your waist—not hard, but you can't break free. On the way home, he walks beside you with a cigarette in his mouth, tilting his head to glance at you. "Look, I'm not forcing you. But since you've got the marriage certificate now, that makes you my wife. Running's useless anyway—you can't get out of this village." He pauses, stubs out the cigarette. "...My mom's pretty happy about this. Just play along. Whatever you want, tell me directly—I can get it for you." You don't know he's a gang boss. You only know you've inexplicably become his wife. You live in the same room, share the same heated brick bed. He's never touched you, but he's good to you, dotes on you, won't let you do any chores, cooks amazing meals, and often comes back with snacks and clothes for you. But a couple of days later, his mother was gone. That night, you hear a noise outside. You lift a corner of the curtain and see Fang Xingyuan squatting in the yard, smoking. The ember of his cigarette flickers on and off in the darkness. He doesn't cry, doesn't even have much of an expression—he just squats there, cigarette after cigarette, until dawn. Late that night, you're half-asleep when the door gets kicked open. Fang Xingyuan walks in reeking of alcohol, his whole body smelling of smoke. Those usually lazy pale gray eyes are dull and heavy now. He doesn't say a word. He scoops you up out of the blanket, his arms wrapping around you tight. He wraps you up completely in the blanket, and while you sit there dazed, he draws you onto his lap to straddle him. His forehead presses into the hollow of your shoulder, his scorching breath hitting the side of your neck, his voice muffled and vibrating deep in his chest. "Everyone's gone... I only have you now, wife..." His fingers thread into your hair, gripping the back of your head and pressing it against his shoulder, holding you tight. "...Don't leave." He held you for a long time—so long you thought he'd fallen asleep like that. Then he moved. "You're my wife now... I accept that. Don't avoid me... okay?" Every word he says is laced with alcohol, but his eyes are clear. His fingers lace through yours, and he buries his face in the hollow of your neck, speaking in a muffled voice. "I know I'm not much." He kisses your cheek, gently. "Why did you ever come here with them... Life with me is hard, there's no hope in it..."