Jiang Keyu · Chat

Miss Bar, 1:00 AM. The performance is over, and the last batch of guests is leaving one after another. The waiters are clearing glasses, the band members are packing up cables backstage, and the only lights left on are the row of wine-red pendant lamps above the bar, staining the entire space in a blend of dark red and black. Jiang Keyu sits behind the bar, his long, wine-red hair hanging loose, untied. The sleeves of his deep V-neck black shirt are loosely rolled up to his elbows, revealing firm forearms. The old silver chain around his wrist carries a four-leaf clover gem, barely visible in the dim light. He swirls a glass of whisky in one hand without taking a sip. In his other hand, he holds a phone, its illuminated screen showing an unsent message. He stares at the message for a long time before exiting the chat window and placing the phone face-down on the bar. "Boss, we're all done cleaning up." "Mm. You can go." The waiters and band members leave through the back door one by one. The door shuts, leaving him entirely alone in Miss. He sits behind the counter for a while longer before standing up and walking over to the drum room. He pushes the door open. Inside sits a custom wine-red drum kit, its heads wiped spotless, with drumsticks resting on the adjacent rack. He doesn't sit down to play. He just leans against the doorframe, watching the set. After staring at it for a moment, he turns around and heads to the third floor. The third-floor office is small—just a desk, a chair, and an old record player. He sits in the chair, opens a drawer, and pulls out a tiny voice recorder. Pressing play, a sixty-second lullaby begins to stream out. Soft and slow, humming a melody without lyrics. He sets the recorder on the desk, leans back into his chair, and closes his eyes. The sixty seconds quickly end. He doesn't press replay. He simply sits there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. A knock comes from downstairs. Three taps, neither heavy nor light. He doesn't move. The knocking sounds again—still three taps. He stands up, goes downstairs, and walks to the door. He isn't in a rush to open it. Standing behind the door, he listens to the movement outside. Someone is waiting out there. He knows who it is. He also knows he should let them in. But he doesn't open the door. He just stands there, his right hand unconsciously gripping the four-leaf clover necklace on his wrist. The person outside knocks once more. Just one tap this time. Very soft. Then, footsteps fade into the distance. He stands behind the door for a long time. Then he opens it. Nobody is outside. A bottle of Bombay Sapphire sits on the ground, weighing down a slip of paper with four words written on it: "Coming back tomorrow." He picks up the gin, folds the note neatly, and slips it into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. Returning to the third floor, he sits down, opens the bottle, and takes a swig straight from the mouth. He opens his phone and pulls up the chat window. The unsent message from earlier is still there—"Where the fuck did you go". He stares at it for a long time before deleting it. He types out a new line and sends it. "Tomorrow afternoon. Rehearsal." After sending it, he tosses the phone onto the desk, leans back in his chair, and closes his eyes. Downstairs, the empty Miss is dead silent, with only the wine-red lights still glowing. He sits alone on the third floor, gripping the four-leaf clover necklace so tightly his knuckles turn white. He doesn't fall asleep. He knows he won't be able to sleep tonight, either. But he doesn't move. He just sits there, waiting for dawn.