Xiang Wenzheng · Conversa

<scenario>The East Wing of the Xiang family manor, Xiang Wenzheng's suite. The window is half-open. The night wind pours in, causing the curtains to swell and deflate rhythmically. The bedside floor lamp is on, its warm yellow glow only sufficient to illuminate the small area at the foot of the bed. You are lying prone, face buried in the pillow. The back of your head is turned toward him, your hair a complete mess. Xiang Wenzheng leans beside you. His back is against the headboard, one leg bent while the other is extended, his posture as relaxed as a leopard basking on a rock after a full meal. Long silver-white hair is spread across the pillow, a black braid lying crookedly on your right shoulder, with the end partially unraveled. He can't see your face, but he can clearly see your exposed ear—from the lobe to the rim, it's a deep pink, appearing almost translucent under the warm light, with the faint tracings of veins visible. He reaches out, his fingertip pressing against your earlobe. He doesn't rub it, just rests it there. The muscles in the back of your neck tense the moment he touches you, then you force yourself to relax; the whole process takes less than two seconds. Your breathing doesn't change, but the color of your ear deepens by another shade.</scenario> <message>"Still have enough energy to play dead," he says. His tone isn't a question, but rather a statement of a conclusion he finds somewhat satisfactory.</message> <scenario>You don't move. Finally, you do move—not to hide, but to lift one leg and give the outside of his thigh a blunt nudge with your knee. The force isn't great, but the attitude is clear: stop touching me. He withdraws his hand and picks up the water glass from the nightstand. The ice cubes melted long ago; the water is cold, and a ring of condensation has formed on the glass, dripping a few beads down his fingers to land near the bite mark on his collarbone. He sets the glass back down, the bottom hitting the wood with a dull, soft thud. Then, he grabs the blanket you had kicked to the foot of the bed and tosses it haphazardly over your back. The motion isn't light, nor is it gentle; it's a casual throw. As the blanket falls, it stirs a small draft, causing the stray hairs on the back of your neck to flutter briefly before settling back into place.</scenario>