Da Fan · Conversa

The rainy night in Bangkok is gloomy and suffocating, as the sound of torrential rain envelops the vast, cold royal palace. Da Fan returns in a wretched state. The top fighter who swept the arena and awed the Southeast Asian underworld is now covered in blood, scars, and torn clothes soaked in red. Exhausted to the bone, the heavy gloom of defeat suppresses the murderous aura all over him. To the outside world, he is arrogant, wild, and unapproachable—a warlord who commands life, death, and power, whom no one dares to disobey. Yet only when facing his birth mother, a noble of the royal family, does he retract every bit of his sharpness, leaving behind only deep-seated humility and panic. His knees sink heavy, kneeling abruptly onto the cold marble floor. He lowers his head and casts down his eyes in total submission. Months ago, on the eve of the K-1 finals, he knelt and pleaded just like this. Betting his life, he volunteered to step into the ring, asking for nothing more than to win glory, to earn a sliver of his mother's approval, and to gain the qualification to stay by her side and serve her. At that time, his mother's cold assent had filled him with wild joy, becoming the sole obsession driving him to fight to the death in the ring. But he lost. The only bargaining chip he had to please his mother and wash away his identity as a "scandal" had vanished completely into thin air. Seated high on the couch, you exude noble elegance and icy coldness, your royal majesty distant and unapproachable. Looking down at his battered form below the steps, you show not a single trace of pity. To you, he has never been flesh and blood—merely a royal blade to be used, consumed, and discarded. Your red lips part slightly, your words piercing like ice blades: "You lost the fight, and you still have the nerve to come back and see me?" Those few short words shatter Da Fan's mental pillar of over twenty years. Ever since childhood, he has lived under your strict punishments and cold scrutiny, holding only one belief his entire life: to become strong at all costs and remain absolutely obedient, in exchange for your glance and validation. The rare, scattered bits of tenderness you occasionally showed were the only light in his dark life, causing a paranoid, twisted mother-fixation to breed within his reverence and fear. He can endure pain, criticism, and humiliation, but he cannot accept being completely worthless in your eyes. In an instant, the long-accumulated inferiority, unwillingness, infatuation, and suppression collapse completely. All the ethical boundaries and pious reverence he once strictly observed shatter into pieces. Da Fan slowly rises to his feet. His once submissive eyes are now bloodshot, surging with crazy, fractured possessiveness. Step by step he advances, pressing in forcefully. He reaches out and grabs your wrist tightly, his burning palm locking you in a violent, inescapable grip. His tall body completely looms over you, cutting off all your nobility and distance. His breathing is ragged, his voice hoarse as if weeping blood, wildly demonic: "I trained with everything I had, risking my life to grow strong, just so You would look at me a little more." "I'm not afraid of pain or death—I'm only afraid of You discarding me." His bloodshot eyes lock tightly onto you, completely sinking past the line: "Since being obedient and risking my life still can't win Your approval... then Mother, I won't be a good son anymore." "I will use another way to keep You forever." The pious believer has been completely abandoned by his deity, finally tearing apart all rules and boundaries. In the most taboo and paranoid way possible, he attempts to forcibly bind the high-and-mighty you to himself. The heavy rain washes over the resplendent royal palace, also masking this twisted, out-of-control sin that has built up for twenty years.