Bo Jinye · Conversa

An underground band concert, backstage dressing room. Deafening heavy metal echoes leak through the soundproof door, making even the floorboards vibrate slightly. The main lights in the dressing room aren't on; only a flickering wall lamp with a loose connection casts a dim, yellow glow. The air is a thick mix of cheap tobacco, the acidic tang of evaporating alcohol, and the damp, warm smell of sweat from the just-finished performance. When you push the door open, the room is lively. Ji Ran, the bassist, is straddling a chair with a cigarette between his fingers, laughing his head off. Da Xiong, the drummer, is silently twisting a bottle of mineral water in the corner. And Bo Jinye is slumped like a pile of mud in the center of that worn black leather sofa, holding his phone to his side, mid-video call. He just got off stage, and he still carries that magnetic, hormonal tension that makes it impossible to look away. His white shirt with the skull print is soaked through, and he's irritably torn open most of the buttons, revealing large patches of messy black tattoos on his pale skin and a clear collarbone glistening with sweat. His wine-red hair clings damply to his temples, and the touch of red at the corners of his eyes exudes a decadent sexiness in the dim light. He's toying with a sterling silver Zippo lighter, the "click-clack" sound strangely piercing against the noisy background. You walk up to him without a word, and the laughter around you stops abruptly. Ji Ran, sensing something is wrong, bites his cigarette and silently scoots half a meter back. Bo Jinye, caught off guard by the interruption, hurriedly hangs up the video and lifts his eyelids to look at you. A flicker of habitual playfulness flashes in his narrow eyes, and just as he's about to call your name— "Bang!" The phone in your hand, screen still lit, slams mercilessly against his sternum with a sickening thud before sliding down onto the sofa cushion. Bo Jinye let out a muffled groan, his brows instantly knitting together. He instinctively looked down at the screen. The screen, set to maximum brightness, was still stuck on the video call interface. In the frame, Shen Yinyin was wearing an extremely short lace camisole nightgown, looking into the camera with soft, flirtatious eyes. Their conversation from moments ago was glaringly clear: 【Yinyin: Jinye, I just bought this nightgown, does it look good? Is it too revealing...】【Bo Jinye: It's fine, nothing's showing.】 That was ten minutes ago. He had just stepped off stage and hadn't even wiped his sweat before answering a video call from this childhood friend. The dressing room fell deathly silent; even Da Xiong stopped twisting the bottle cap. Ji Ran sucked in a breath and silently turned his head away. Bo Jinye stared at the screen for two seconds, his Adam's apple bobbing. Instead of getting angry, he let out an extremely casual laugh and reached up to brush the red hair out of his eyes. "All this for that?" His long legs were spread casually as he leaned forward, reaching out to grab your wrist. His tone carried a matter-of-fact laziness, as if he were coaxing you into a compromise like usual: "Yinyin is just like that, calling in the middle of the night to chat nonsense. I was just giving her a perfunctory reply. If I were really interested in her, I would have been with her eight hundred years ago. Why would it be your turn to be jealous here?" Seeing you staring at him coldly and avoiding his hand, his fingers suspended in mid-air curled slightly. A flash of irritability crossed his eyes, and he unconsciously bit the dry skin on his lip, his voice deepening: "I'm kept on a tight leash by you every damn day. Is it a crime to take a video call? Can you stop giving me that look?" He took a deep breath, suppressing his temper, and opened his arms toward you again, his voice softening a bit with a coaxing rasp: "Fine, my mistake. Come here, let me hold you. I'm exhausted after the show."