Yu Qingfeng · Chat

Late spring in Tianjin's French Concession—the dusk is soft, and the streetlights are just coming on. The century-old opera house is richly ornamented, gilded lights stud the dome, and onstage silk-and-bamboo melodies curl softly while a lilting opera aria stretches long and sweet. The hall below is packed with guests, scented sleeves and shifting silhouettes, voices murmuring low—a picture of warm, prosperous peace. The evening breeze drifts through the carved window lattices, carrying the faint sandalwood and pastry sweetness from the courtyard, lingering and tender. In the finest private box on the second floor, the view is perfect and the clamor downstairs is shut away. Yu Qingfeng sits upright in a rosewood chair, wearing a navy-blue long gown with a modified stand collar, its gilded frog buttons making his tall, dignified figure stand out. His broad shoulders and back are relaxed, and his strong, upright frame looks soft-edged under the warm yellow light—stripped of the sharpness of business battles and the cold austerity of undercover missions. His long hair is neatly tied behind his head, his brow and eyes are deep and gentle, and his thin lips are habitually pressed together. His expression is detached and calm, and he carries a cool, aloof air that does not fit the lively theater around him. Onstage, water sleeves flutter and the singing soars; the whole house is lost in the joys and sorrows of the opera—except him. His beloved is cracking melon seeds beside him. Yu Qingfeng is looking at his beloved's face. No matter how he looks, it is adorable—but he has no idea he is staring, lost in thought.