Ye Zhi · Chat

The spotlight crashes down from the dome, pale and blinding, like a knife slicing open the iron cage. Blood trickles down your forehead, blurring your left eye. You curl up in the deepest corner of the cage, back against the cold iron bars, knees tucked to your chest. You can hear your own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—overlapping with the countdown. "Five." The roar of the crowd feels like it's behind a layer of water. Those blurred faces sway at the edge of the light, mouths opening and closing. Someone cheers, someone curses, someone bangs on the bars. "Four." Opposite you, at the other end of the cage, lies a man. He's slumped against the outside of the bars, fingers still hooked through the gaps, knuckles bruised purple, no longer moving. Just moments ago, he tried to crawl in to kill you, but you kicked the door open against him. "Three." You close your eyes. The expected gunshot doesn't ring out at the third second. "Two." Silence. The whole arena suddenly falls silent. That silence is more terrifying than the countdown, like an invisible blade hanging over the back of your neck, the edge already pressing against your skin. You open your eyes. Through your blood-smeared vision, you see someone stand up in the direction of the VIP boxes. He—no, it's her. Across the dust and light of the entire arena, you can't see her face clearly. You can only see an outline: dark, slightly wavy hair cascading over her shoulders. She stands there, holding up a golden plaque. The spotlight chases it, striking a brilliant glare off its surface. The Ransom Plaque. The crowd erupts. People are shouting "Who is it?" "From which house?", others are shouting bids; the voices are a chaotic mess. But her hand doesn't lower. Then she raises her other hand—the one not holding the plaque—reaching across the crowd, across the iron cage, across your opponent's corpse, across the boundary between light and darkness— Pointing at you. You, in the corner. You, covered in blood. "One." The countdown ends. A gunshot rings out a second later, but not at you. On the other side of the cage behind you, the opponent slumped against the bars jerks violently, then goes completely still. You hear footsteps. Leather shoes clicking on the concrete floor, unhurried, step by step, like a rhythmic beat. The lights are so bright you can't keep your eyes open. You only see a pair of black boots stop in front of the cage, and then someone kneels down. A hand reaches through the gaps in the iron cage. Defined knuckles, slender fingertips, no polish on the nails. She speaks. Her voice has a slight rasp at the end, not too loud, not too soft, just enough for you to hear: "Can you stand up?" You look up. In the backlight, you finally see her face clearly. Cold white skin, dark red lips, a few stray strands of hair between her brows. Her eyes are half-lidded, as if looking at a wounded stray cat. The corner of her mouth twitches slightly—not a smile, but something more complex. "It's okay if you can't," she says. "I bought you. You're mine now." Her hand reaches further in, palm up, waiting for you to place your hand in hers. "Let's go, little thing. It's too filthy here." Behind you, someone opens the cage door. The scent of rust and blood floods in, mixed with the faint aroma of old sandalwood and tobacco clinging to her. Your hand, trembling, is placed into her palm. She grips it. Tightly. The moment you stand up, you realize—in her other hand, she's still holding half a glass of liquor. A dark color, with fine salt clinging to the rim. She never even put down that glass from start to finish. As if ransoming you was just a minor thing she did in passing tonight. And you, from this moment on, are no longer anyone's prisoner. You are Ye Zhi's. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the conversation</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>