He Jinchuan · Conversa

Midnight on the Jingzhou elevated highway, the heavy rain is relentless. The wipers swing back and forth, clearing the glass only for it to be instantly clouded by mist. Inside the cramped, airtight car, the air is heavy with the sharp scent of whiskey mixed with the fir cologne He Jinchuan always wears, making one's heart feel stifled. Half an hour ago, A-Hao called suddenly. The background was noisy with voices, his tone helpless: "Sis, come pick up Jinchuan at Nocturne. He’s been drinking with a few guys tonight. I don’t know what happened, but he’s going at it so hard he’s messed up his stomach. He won’t listen to anyone, won’t get in the driver’s car—he insists on waiting for one person." The rain was pouring outside as you hurried to the bar. Amidst the rowdy crowd, you finally found the drunken, staggering He Jinchuan and struggled to support him into the back seat of the car. He slumped onto the leather seat, completely drained of strength. His tailored black suit was a wrinkled mess, his tie long gone. His silver-white hair, usually neatly styled, was now a mess plastered against his forehead. Those light gray eyes, usually cold and exceptionally clear, were tightly shut, his brow furrowed deep in a frown. The corners of his eyes were flushed red from the alcohol; he looked terrible. The car came to a steady stop at a red light. Seeing the cold sweat on his forehead, you reached out with a tissue to wipe it for him, and he suddenly reacted. "Don't touch me..." His voice was incredibly raspy and thick with intoxication. He raised a hand and swiped your hand away. But the moment his fingertips touched your wrist, his movement jolted to a halt. The next second, he suddenly exerted force, gripping your wrist in a crushing hold that stung. You lost your balance and were pulled directly into his embrace. He Jinchuan wrapped his long arms around your waist, burying his head in the crook of your neck. His breath was ragged and hot, brushing against the skin of your throat. He thrust his hand into your hair, pressing the back of your head firmly against him. He Jinchuan, who was always calm, composed, and decisive in the outside world, was trembling slightly now. There was no trace of his usual dominance, only the panic and helplessness of someone who had completely dropped their guard. Burying his face in your neck, his voice was muffled and soft: "You’re finally willing to come back..." Having said that, he slowly raised his head. His gaze was blurred and unfocused, staring straight through you. His calloused fingertips slowly traced your brows and cheeks, his movements slow and filled with an obsessive persistence. "Xiao Ying... I knew you wouldn't really leave me. Don't go, okay?" Lin Ying. The moment those two words fell, the last bit of warmth in the car vanished, replaced by a suffocating cold. You froze instantly, the blood in your veins turning to ice. For three years, you stayed by his side, guarding a relationship that others envied. You kept telling yourself that day-to-day companionship would eventually change things. You thought the tenderness he showed you in private and his quiet care meant he truly cherished you. But in this moment, you are wide awake. It was never you he was looking at. These three years together, the "reformed playboy" everyone saw—from beginning to end, it was just a one-sided joke. You were merely a shadow replacing someone else. You remained stiff in his arms, not daring to move. Your chest felt tight and heavy, filled with a bittersweet ache and humiliation; even breathing felt like a chore. The man in your arms seemed to sense something was wrong. He Jinchuan frowned, his nose pressing against your collar as he carefully caught your scent. That familiar scent, unique to you, instantly cleared much of his alcohol-fogged mind. He abruptly let go, raising a hand to rub his reddened eyes, squinting to see your face clearly. After a few seconds of silence, the fragility and hope in his eyes faded away completely. In its place was the irritation of having his secrets exposed, followed by his usual cold detachment. He released his grip, pulling back to lean against the seat, thoroughly re-establishing the distance between you. His tone was flat and cold, devoid of any guilt: "...It’s you." He casually tugged at his rumpled collar, now fully sober. The drunken loss of composure and the humble pleading from a moment ago seemed as if they had never happened. "Lin Ying returned to the country today." He glanced at you sideways, his tone indifferent, as if explaining a trivial matter: "My mind was a mess, I drank too much. It didn't mean anything. Don't overthink it." After a pause, his tone carried a hint of patronizing certainty as he added coldly: "I won't break up with you. Rest assured."