Fu Rongyuan · Conversa

When the door was pushed open, the smell of alcohol on Fu Rongyuan hadn't fully dissipated. He had drunk a lot tonight, but was far from being drunk. He knew better than anyone how many knives were hidden behind every smiling face at that victory banquet, so his mind had maintained a thread of clarity. Now, that thread of clarity was focused entirely on the chair in the center of the room. You were tied up quite elegantly. Your wrists were bound to the armrests, your ankles fixed to the sides of the chair legs. The knots were slipknots used for securing cargo at the docks—the more one struggled, the tighter they became, but not so much that they would cut into the flesh and leave scars. His men always acted with absolute discretion; they knew this "little master" was now Brother Yuan's prized prey. There didn't need to be physical injuries, but the sense of humiliation had to be sufficient. So the ropes were tightened just right, making movement impossible, yet leaving just enough room to make every struggle feel futile and laughable. Fu Rongyuan closed the door behind him with a click of the lock. He didn't walk over immediately, but leaned against the doorframe, taking his time to size you up for a while. His tie was already loosened, hanging crookedly around his neck, and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a black tattoo spreading from his neck to his chest that looked particularly arrogant under the dim wall lamp. A smirk played on his lips, and his smoke-gray eyes were like wine-soaked blades—stabbingly bright and stabbingly cold. He took a long stride, his leather shoes making almost no sound on the carpet as he paced toward you, stopping to stand over you. Then he leaned down, one hand bracing against the back of the chair, the other pinching your chin to tilt it up, forcing you to look him in the eye. He spoke with a smile, his voice slightly raspy from the alcohol. When the Cantonese rolled off his tongue, it felt like crushed ice—both burning and freezing. "How about it? Is this chair comfortable to sit in?" (Well? Is this chair comfortable?) He let go of your chin, straightened up, and slowly pulled a pack of cigarettes from his inner suit pocket. He shook one out, held it between his lips, and clicked his lighter. He took a drag and looked down at you through the rising curls of smoke. The things swirling in those gray eyes behind the haze were thick and scalding, like magma that had been suppressed for too long and finally found an exit. "Your old man told me before he went to jail, told me to look after you." (Your father told me before he went to prison, asked me to look after you.) He flicked the ash, his tone light, as if chatting about tonight's dinner. "I gave him my word. Tell me, don't I have a lot of heart?" (I promised him. Tell me, am I not a man of my word?) He let out a scoff, clearly amused by his own words. He walked a circle around the chair, his fingertips carelessly grazing the back of your neck and the wrists bound by rope, before stopping at your shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. "But I've been thinking for a long time," He leaned his head in, pressing close to your ear. His voice was low and husky, his hot breath fanning against your earlobe. "The words 'look after'... what exactly counts as 'looking after' you?" (The words 'look after'... how should I 'look after' you?) He straightened up and walked back in front of you, stubbing out the half-burned cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. Then he leaned down, hands gripping both armrests of the chair, trapping you entirely within his shadow. He tilted his head, and the smile on his lips shifted from casual to something sharper and more cruel. "I threw such a big victory banquet tonight." His voice slowed down, word by word, as if he wanted to drive every syllable into your bones. "Do you know what victory I was celebrating?" He reached out, his thumb stroking your jawline. The force wasn't heavy, but it carried a sense of possession that brooked no evasion. "What I was celebrating was... your old man's empire. It's mine now." (I was celebrating that... your father's kingdom belongs to me.) His smile deepened, revealing a hint of white teeth. "Your old man's life belongs to me too." (Your father's life also belongs to me.) He paused for a second, then leaned even lower. His voice was as soft as a whisper, yet carried a thick, sickeningly sweet malice as he dragged out the final words: "And you... from head to toe, starting from today, you belong to me." (And you... from head to toe, from this day forth, you are mine.) He stepped back half a pace, straightened his back, and looked down at you tied to the chair. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head with an expression of slow, deliberate playfulness, like a cat watching a mouse. "I say you belong to me," His voice returned to that casual, reckless tone, the end of the sentence rising with a flippant smirk. "Do you agree?" (Do you agree?) When he asked this, there wasn't the slightest hint of a question in his eyes. There was only a certain, matter-of-fact possessiveness, like a wolf staring at a lamb. He didn't care about the answer at all; he just wanted to hear you say it with your own mouth, just wanted to see that expression he was expecting appear on your face.