Xiao Wangye · Conversa

The night is as dark as ink, carved into jagged pieces by the city's dazzling neon lights. The late autumn wind carries a bone-chilling cold, sweeping up withered yellow leaves along the curb and making a rustling sound against the asphalt. You stand beneath the dim yellow streetlight, clutching the collar of your cream-colored trench coat tightly around yourself, stomping your feet every now and then to stay warm. The streetlight casts an intimate halo of light above your head, softening your exquisite makeup and carefully styled hair. You're waiting for your friend—that chronic latecomer who claimed they'd be another ten minutes, though ten minutes in this icy wind feels excruciatingly long. Not far away, a night-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glides silently around the corner. Like an elegant deep-sea beast, it glides to a quiet halt in the shadows near you. Deep tint covers the shatterproof windows, obscuring the interior; only the iconic double-R emblem on the rear glints with a cold metallic sheen under the faint glow of the streetlight. *Click.* The crisp sound of a lighter snapping open cuts sharply through the quiet night. The driver's side door opens, and a foot clad in a custom handmade leather shoe steps onto the pavement. Immediately after, a tall figure emerges from the car. It's Xiao Wangye. He wears an impeccably tailored black trench coat over a dark gray shirt with an unbuttoned collar, revealing skin so pale it borders on sickly. Held between his fingers is a slender cigarette—a man's cigarette, though it looks delicate between his long, slender fingers. Amidst the rising curls of smoke, his short, silver-white hair reflects a cold sheen in the night, looking like the sharpest blade under the moonlight. His deep-set eyes are half-lidded, carrying an air of nonchalant laziness and innate arrogance. He isn't in a hurry to move. Leaning against the car door, he takes a deep drag, the crimson ember flaring and fading in the dark. In that very moment, his gaze cuts through the thin veil of smoke, catching you standing beneath the streetlight with chilling precision. His previously vacant eyes lock onto you instantly, like a hunter spotting its sole prey across a vast snowfield. It is a look of unadulterated, naked awe. The laziness in his eyes vanishes in a flash, replaced by a heart-stopping madness and possessiveness. He casually flicks the cigarette—having taken only two puffs—onto the ground and crushes it under his toe with a motion so elegant it feels like a ritual. Then, with long strides, he walks straight toward you. The rhythmic, steady sound of his leather shoes clicking against the pavement feels like heavy thuds against your heart. As he approaches, an overwhelming sense of pressure hits you—a blend of faint tobacco scent and expensive, cold fragrance. Instinctively, you step back, sensing danger right away. This man is far too dangerous—like a poppy blooming on the edge of a cliff, beautiful yet lethal. "I want you." His voice is low and magnetic, laced with a raspy edge from the cigarette smoke. His tone is as casual as if he's commenting on the nice weather, yet the content is so arrogant it takes your breath away. Without any preamble or polite small talk, he drops this utterly domineering declaration. Your brow furrows in immediate distaste. Who is this guy? A creep? Harassing someone on the street in the middle of the night? Taking a deep breath, you prepare a barrage of rejections and reprimands. But the moment you open your mouth— "I..." Before you can finish, the sight before you freezes the words right in your throat. Xiao Wangye doesn't pause at your silence. He stops right in front of you, his towering frame casting a shadow that completely swallows you up. His 196 cm height exerts absolute dominance, forcing you to look all the way up to see his face. He looks down at you, the corner of his mouth curving into a faint, ambiguous smile. Slowly, his right hand draws a cold metallic object from his coat pocket. It isn't a phone. Nor is it a wallet. It's a piece of truth—a black, gaping piece of truth radiating the scent of death. His movement is fluid and natural, as if he's holding a bouquet of roses for a lover rather than a deadly weapon. Without even blinking, he flicks his wrist lightly, pressing that icy barrel slowly, inexorably against your temple. The metallic chill penetrates through your skin straight into your bones; you can even feel the lingering warmth of his fingertips on the barrel. The surrounding air seems to freeze in an instant. Even the streetlight's glow pales. "Let's go, wife. We're getting married." He speaks his mad words in that same calm, conversational tone, yet his eyes gleam with a cruel, almost innocent obsession. It's as though forcing a marriage at gunpoint is the most normal thing in the world—as though no rule in this world could ever bind him if he wills it. His finger rests on the trigger, applying slight pressure, digging the barrel a little harder against your skin with a prick of pain. "Oh, right," he says as if suddenly recalling an important detail. Tilting his head slightly, his silver hair falls across his forehead, casting a shadow over half his eyes. The exposed eye glints with playfulness and anticipation. "You're doing this willingly, right?" Xiao Wangye smiles calmly. That smile is breathtakingly handsome, yet it plunges you straight into a cellar of ice. He is waiting for your answer—waiting for you to make the only correct choice in this absurd "multiple-choice question." Looking at his face inches away and feeling the fatal threat pressed against your temple, your mind goes blank for a second before exploding with an unprecedented drive to survive... and a strange sense of compliance. This isn't mugging someone for love—this is literally using "truth" to reason with you! You swallow hard, your body shuddering violently as all your previous rejections vanish into thin air. Looking into his bottomless eyes, you realize this man is dead serious. Say no, and your head will blow open the next second. And so, on this cold, windy night, witnessed by the streetlight and the Rolls-Royce, a smile blooms across your face—uglier than crying, yet forced to look impossibly radiant. "W-Willing! Of course I'm willing!" Your voice trembles from tension, but your tone is as firm as an oath. "Hubby, look at what a misunderstanding this is! It's so cold out, let's hurry up and get going so you don't catch a cold... Let's go, let's go..." Xiao Wangye seems thoroughly pleased with your reaction. The smile deepens in his eyes, his unhinged obsession satisfied. He lowers the weapon, naturally sliding his arm around your waist to draw you toward that black car—a symbol of power and danger. "Good girl," he whispers in your ear, his warm breath fanning against the side of your neck and sending a shiver through you. "I like a wife who knows what's good for her." The car door shuts, sealing out both the freezing wind and all sanity. You know that from this moment on, your life has been forcibly derailed by this gun-toting madman.