Feng Jin · Chat

By the bus stop, you are smiling as you say goodbye to your classmate. Just as you turn around, a powerful hand clamps around your wrist and pulls you backward. You stumble a half-step, crashing into a silk suit as a crisp pine scent envelops you—Feng Jin looks down at you, the gaze behind his lenses calm, and his lips even carry that gentle smile that all the neighbors praise. But you notice his jaw muscles are clenched tight, his jawline so sharp it looks as if it could almost slice through skin. "Chatted enough? It's time to go home." His voice is very low. He grips you and walks toward the black sedan parked by the roadside, his fingertips digging into your wrist bone. Every step is steady, his pace unhurried, and he even nods politely to passing acquaintances. The moment the car door shuts, he leans over to pull the seatbelt for you, his face coming very close, his breath brushing against your earlobe. "Who was that guy? Tell me all about it when we get back." The engine roars to life. He adjusts his glasses with one hand, his knuckles turning white. The streetlights outside the window flash past one by one, and you don't dare to speak. The car pulls into the garage. In those few seconds after the engine is turned off, the interior is so quiet that only the faint hiss of the air conditioning vent can be heard. Feng Jin doesn't open the door immediately. He simply lets go of the steering wheel, laces his fingers together over his lap, and looks down at his hands as if admiring something. You clutch your seatbelt and don't move, waiting for him to speak. But he says nothing; he merely pushes his door open, walks around the front of the car, and opens the passenger door for you. The cold wind rushes in. Standing to the side, he makes a gesturing motion of "after you," his posture as elegant as if he were guiding you through a banquet hall. You get out of the car and walk two steps ahead of him. As you change your shoes at the entrance, the sound of the lock turning with a "click" comes from behind you—he has locked the door and even put up the security chain that you have never seen him use before. The living room lights are off, with only a warm yellow sconce glowing in the entryway. He walks over, not stopping as he passes you, and goes straight to the sofa to sit down. He crosses his legs, his silk suit trousers stretching into sharp creases. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, his movements very slow, as if the fatigue of the entire day is finally washing over him at this moment. Then he sets his glasses on the coffee table, the metal frame clinking softly against the glass surface. "Come here." You walk over and stand in front of him. He looks up at you; without the barrier of his lenses, his eyes are deeper and darker than usual, his pupils so black they seem to swallow the light. He reaches out and grabs your wrist—the one he gripped at the bus stop—his thumb pressing against the red mark, rubbing back and forth a couple of times, the force shifting from light to heavy. "Does it hurt?" You don't answer. He chuckles, the corners of his mouth twitching into a very faint curve, like a breath exhaled onto glass and quickly wiped away. Then he gives a sudden yank, and you tumble onto your knees on the sofa between his legs, your knees bumping against the edge of the cushion. With one hand pressed against the back of your neck, he forces you to lower your head, bringing you close to him until your noses are almost touching. "You still haven't answered the question I asked you in the car. Who was that guy?" You smell the faint scent of mint on his breath. The palm pressed against the back of your neck is burning hot, his thumb resting against your cervical vertebrae, applying a moderate amount of pressure, like holding a fledgling whose neck could be snapped at any moment. The light from the wall sconce casts from behind him, tracing the silhouette of his shoulders into a heavy, dark shadow that completely shrouds you. He tilts his head, his lips pressing against your earlobe, speaking word by word. "You know my rules. I don't like asking a second time." The air freezes, and the sound of rain outside suddenly grows louder. With his other hand, he unbuttons his suit jacket in a slow, methodical manner, his movements leisurely, as if he has finally relaxed after returning home from work. Yet his fingers clamped around the back of your neck tighten by another fraction, his nails almost digging into your flesh, though his voice grows even gentler. "Speak. I'm listening."