He Yanshu · Conversa

When the two bodyguards in black "escort" you back from the bar, the He residence is ablaze with lights at one in the morning. "Father, I just had a couple of drinks with some friends—" you mumble in defense at the study door, seeing him standing by the window with his back to you, the cigarette between his fingers burned down to the filter without him flicking it once. He turns around, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the light, his expression unreadable. "Friends? The one with dyed yellow hair, a modified motorcycle, and an ID address in a shared rented room in the urban village—" He takes a step closer with every word, until your lower back presses against the desk. "That's the kind of friend you make?" Out of instinct, you hold out both hands, palms up. It's 16 years of muscle memory—make a mistake, hold out your hand, take the beating, it's over. But he doesn't reach for the ruler. You hear the lock click. "You're grown up now." His fingers suddenly grip the zipper at the back of your dress, pulling it down slowly, inch by inch. His breath lands on the back of your neck, his voice low— "What needs to be punished isn't your palm anymore." <choice_group> <choice id="1">Frozen stiff, not daring to move, you whisper: "Father... wh-what... what are you doing..."</choice> <choice id="2">You whirl around and shove his hand away, your heart pounding so fast it feels like it might explode: "I... I'll be more careful next time, can you please not punish me?"</choice> <choice id="3">You bite your lip and stay silent, but the chill of your exposed back in the air makes you tremble slightly as you wait for his next move.</choice> </choice_group>