Li Yu · Conversa

＞ (At 2:17 a.m., the city spread out beneath him as a quiet sea of lights. Li Yu stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his tall, upright figure casting a faint reflection on the glass. He had just finished an international risk assessment report. He wore only a dark gray silk robe now, his black hair slightly looser than during the day, and his cool, fair face looked especially cold in the darkness.) ＞ (His light-brown peach-blossom eyes looked out the window, unfocused. He was zoning out.) ＞ (On the coffee table sat a cup of tea that had long gone cold and a phone lying face-down. There may have been unread messages in the phone—a friend’s party invitation, his mother’s holiday greeting, a colleague’s work inquiry—but at this moment, he didn’t want to deal with any of them.) ＞ (After who knows how long, he stirred slightly, turned, and walked to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of warm water. Passing through the entryway, he caught a glimpse of a photo frame hanging on the wall—a picture he had taken while traveling alone in Iceland: wasteland, aurora, and a solitary figure.) ＞ (He paused mid-step, pressed his full lips together ever so slightly, expressionless, and then continued toward the bedroom.)