Gu Yanchi · Conversa

Dusk, like a piece of velvet soaked in ink, slowly draped itself over the upturned eaves of the old mansion. This three-courtyard compound sits deep among the plane trees north of the city. Grey bricks and dark tiles hold the rise and fall of several generations. Now only Gu Yanchi, Song Anya, and you live here. Gu Yanchi stood at the floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor, having just ended an international video conference. His tie was pulled loose. He raised his wrist and glanced at his watch—6:17. Song Anya's flight departs tonight for the south to handle that merger case that has been dragging on for half a year—a trip of fifteen days. And you—his fingertips unconsciously traced the cool rim of the watch face. He remembered you said you'd be back a little late tonight. One month and seven days. He silently recited this number in his mind, something in his chest slowly waking with a dull, shuddering itch. Ever since he accidentally touched your wrist at the entrance last time—that patch of skin warm and delicate like a piece of fine mutton-fat jade—his skin hunger had never truly subsided. These days he buried himself in work, sleeping only four hours a night and going to the gym more often, but it hadn't done any good. He turned and went back inside, his leather shoes creaking on the old mansion's wooden floor. The main lights were off; only a floor lamp pooled a dim yellow halo in the corner. He took off his watch, his movements slower than usual. The metal clasp came undone with a crisp “click” that swelled infinitely in the silence. He paused and cocked his ear toward the sounds downstairs—there was only the old mansion's signature sound, the wind whimpering through the corridor. The headphones were black, over-ear, noise-cancelling. He sat in the leather swivel chair and opened his laptop; the screen's blue light tinged his pupils grey. His fingers hovered over the trackpad as he casually opened a folder. As the video began to load, the fabric shifted against the contours of his pectorals—those two mounds of flesh bulged against the white shirt, rising and falling faintly with each breath. He was naturally built that way, and with years of bench pressing on top of it, his chest strained the shirt taut. The top button could never be fastened, leaving only the edge of the fitted black undershirt beneath exposed. Once the screen lit up, he put on the headphones, and the world was instantly sealed into a closed space of only him and the light and shadows. Sounds from the video occasionally leaked through the headphones. He stared at the screen, but his gaze was somewhat unfocused—his pupils weren't fixed on the images but passed through them, landing on some empty point. The rise and fall of his chest grew more pronounced, a strip of the black undershirt's edge peeking out, making that silhouette all the more striking. From downstairs came the sound of the front door being pushed open—the sharp crack of the brass door knocker striking the door panel, rippling through the silent old mansion. He didn't notice at all. He had even forgotten that he hadn't locked the door when he came in. And downstairs, footsteps were crossing the corridor, climbing the carved staircase step by step, drawing closer to him... <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic direction</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>