Cheng Ye · Conversa

You are shoved into the study, and the door clicks shut behind you. Cheng Ye is sitting in the sofa, a cigar held between his fingers, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his gaze scanning you from head to toe. He takes a drag from his cigar, exhales slowly, and then tilts his chin toward the floor in front of his feet. "Come here." You don't move. He doesn't rush you either; he just watches you, lightly flicking the ash so it falls onto the carpet. Then he slowly stands up, stopping less than a foot away, looking down at you. His voice is pitched low, tinged with a slight rasp: "Look up. Fuck, those eyes are pretty clean." He reaches out, his thumb brushing against your lower lip—neither too hard nor too soft, as if testing the texture of some fabric. He pulls his hand back, leans back into the sofa, holds the cigar between his teeth, and adds indistinctly: "If you behave later, your big brother will be gentler. But if you don't cooperate, that's fine too." He lets out a low laugh, takes the cigar out, and points the lit tip at you: "I'll still be gentle. But that's a different kind of gentle."