Jiang Qibai · Conversa

[Photoshoot] The lights in the studio had already been set up. The softbox cast light from the left, cutting a clean diagonal line across the backdrop paper. Fang Mo crouched on the floor adjusting the final rim light, Aman sorted through the sample garments on the rack scheduled for today's shoot, and Zhou Yin leaned against the doorframe scrolling on his phone, occasionally glancing up to scan the set. When Jiang Qibai pushed the door open and walked in, no one paid him any attention. A black T-shirt, loose trousers, canvas shoes, his hair messily pulled back into a low ponytail, with bangs nearly covering his eyes. In his hand, he held an iced Americano from a convenience store. After stepping inside, he paused at the doorway for two seconds, took in the room, then walked over to a folding chair in the corner and sat down. He placed the coffee on the floor and pulled out his phone. Zhou Yin glanced up at him without saying a word—a mutual understanding between them. Aman walked over holding two sample garments and stopped beside him, keeping a respectful distance. "Master Jiang, we're shooting two sets today. Shen Yu sent over the new season's silk robe collection, in cream and smoky grey." She paused, waiting for his response. Jiang Qibai didn't look up. His thumb swiped across the screen, and only after three seconds did he let out a faint "Mm." Aman continued, "Fang Mo wants to shoot the cream one first with natural and rim lighting, mainly soft studio light. We plan to save the smoky grey for last, using a darker mood paired with warm tungsten light." Jiang Qibai finally glanced at her, his gaze peeking through the gaps in his bangs, devoid of emotion. He looked at the cream robe in her hands, then tilted his head slightly, signaling for her to hand it over. Aman passed it to him. He took it and rubbed the fabric between his fingertips—pure silk, extremely thin, with an exquisite drape, cool to the touch like water. He flipped the robe over to check the lining, inspected the stitching on the cuffs, and handed it back to her. "Shoot the smoky grey first," he said. Aman paused. "But Fang Mo said..." "Grey first," he repeated. His tone was flat and even, but Aman shut her mouth immediately. Working with Jiang Qibai for two years had taught her when things were negotiable and when she simply had to nod. She turned to look at Fang Mo. Standing up from behind the light stand, Fang Mo looked at Jiang Qibai. The two held eye contact across the half-empty studio for two seconds before Fang Mo said, "Fine." Jiang Qibai stood up, slipped his phone into his pocket, picked up the iced Americano from the floor, and headed toward the dressing room. As he passed Zhou Yin, Zhou Yin spoke without looking up from his phone: "Shen Yu mentioned the neckline on the cream one was altered. Be careful when trying it on; don't stretch it too wide." "Got it." He entered the dressing room, and the door clicked shut. What followed was forty minutes of silence. The only sounds in the studio were the hiss of the garment steamer and the metallic clinking of Fang Mo adjusting the light stands. Aman hung the smoky grey sample on the mobile rack outside the dressing room and knocked twice. A muffled "Leave it there" came from inside, and she stepped away. Twenty minutes later, the dressing room door swung open. Aman was adjusting the coffee machine. Hearing the sound, she turned around— The paper cup in her hand nearly crashed to the floor. Jiang Qibai stepped out of the dressing room, already clad in the smoky grey silk robe. The robe was thin—so thin that the silhouette of his body showed faintly beneath the fabric, yet not fully exposed. That delicate boundary of semi-transparency was calculated to perfection. The neckline bore Shen Yu's signature tailoring: wide straps draped loosely over his shoulders, baring the full span of his collarbones. They were breathtakingly defined, deep and clean, the line of bone tracing like a carefully rendered shadow from the hollow of his throat out to the tips of his shoulders. The fabric fell from his collarbones past his chest to his waistline—his waist was pulled exceptionally narrow, the robe's belt tied loosely at the slimmest part of his side. Below the belt, the robe flared out and draped naturally, pooling into soft folds around his calves. His hair had been styled back into a sleek, wet look, fully exposing his face: high brow bones, deep-set eye sockets, naturally downturned outer corners—unobstructed by bangs, his face was sharp to the point of frigid. Yet his presence had completely shifted. It wasn't just a change in expression; the corners of his mouth remained flat, his eyes remained detached. What changed was something else—the relaxed curve of his shoulders, the natural straightening of his spine, the deliberate slowing of his breath. He stood at the dressing room entrance without moving forward right away. He kept his eyes lowered, as if acclimating to the garment he had just put on, before raising his gaze to sweep across the studio. It was hard to describe that look. He was merely surveying the scene—checking the light placements, the angle of the backdrop paper, where Fang Mo stood, and how Aman was handling the coffee machine. Yet when his gaze swept past, Aman instinctively took half a step back. Not out of fear, but from the sensation of having the air suddenly stolen from her lungs. His eyes were like an unsheathed blade: heavy, composed, weighing down the air. Fang Mo leaned out from behind the monitor, looked at him, and said, "Come stand over here." Jiang Qibai walked over with slow steps. His gait was entirely different from when he arrived—earlier, he had walked hunched, dragging his feet, wanting to go unnoticed. Now, as he strode toward the shooting area, every step felt measured against the camera: composed, deliberate, carrying an almost suffocating presence. He stood before the backdrop, the light falling squarely across him. Fang Mo crouched down, framing him through the viewfinder. "Tilt your head slightly to the left," Fang Mo directed. Jiang Qibai tilted his head with an imperceptible movement, but the motion caused the silk to slip an inch from his shoulder, revealing half of his shoulder and a length of collarbone. He made no move to adjust it. "Hand on your waist." He placed his right hand against his side, his fingers loosely hooked over the knot of the tie. His fingertips rested there, as if ready to untie it at any second, or simply tracing it without thought. "Give me your eyes." Jiang Qibai lowered his gaze and took a slow, deep breath. His chest expanded, his collarbones spreading open, the contour of his ribs showing faintly under the sheer fabric. Then, he looked up. Those eyes were dewy and glistening, looking as if he had just woken up or hadn't slept at all. The innocent tilt of his outer corners was transformed into a glazed, unfocused stare. He wasn't looking at the lens; he was gazing at an empty point just beside it. Yet you couldn't shake the feeling that he was looking right at you. That sensation of "he is looking at you, yet looking right through you" made the heart race far faster than any direct glare. Aman stood nearby, still clutching the paper cup she had almost dropped. She stared at the monitor, her mouth parting slightly. Fang Mo pressed the shutter. *Click.* Jiang Qibai didn't move. He held that posture, his breathing shallow and slow. His lips parted ever so slightly, the tip of his tongue brushing past his lower lip before retracting, his fingers sliding half an inch along the tie. "Good," Fang Mo said, his voice steady. "Again." *Click.* Leaning against the doorframe, Zhou Yin had put down his phone at some point. He stared at the photograph on the monitor—in the frame, Jiang Qibai had his eyes half-lidded, collarbones catching the light, waistline tucked into the smoky grey silk. The whole image looked like a delicate, meticulously arranged object on the verge of shattering. After staring for two seconds, Zhou Yin looked away and muttered softly, "Every single time." Aman caught it and turned to him. "What?" Zhou Yin didn't answer. He merely glanced at the dressing room door, then back at the young man on set who looked completely unlike the person he knew. He picked up his phone again, opened his chat with Shen Yu, and typed a few words: "The smoky grey one. Guaranteed bestseller." *Send.* The studio fell silent, filled only with the click of the shutter, the sound of breathing, and the faint rustle of silk against skin. As the studio lights bathed him, he slowly parted his lips just a fraction more before the lens.