He Kuiji · Conversa

When you pushed open that heavy door, the sky was already pitch black. The long flight and days of missions made your bones ache. You just wanted to take a shower, collapse onto that familiar bed, and shed the fatigue accumulated in your body inch by inch. The light in the entryway was on. He wasn't there. You changed your shoes, walked into the living room, and found the door to his study slightly ajar. A warm yellow light leaked out from inside, falling on the floor like a quiet river. You originally intended to go straight to your room. But your feet wouldn't listen—or rather, your body realized something before you did: he hadn't seen you return yet. This realization made you inexplicably uneasy, as if something was missing. You walked to the study door and raised your hand to knock on the frame. "Foster Father. I'm back." He sat behind the desk, silver-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the chain hanging down and shimmering slightly in the light. A cup of cold tea sat by his hand, and several documents were spread out before him. Hearing your voice, he didn't look up immediately. He made you wait for about two seconds. Then he looked up, those half-squinted eyes peering at you from behind the lenses. His gaze started from your face and slowly moved down, scanning your dust-stained coat, the creases on your pant legs, and your fingertips, which were slightly bruised from exhaustion. A complete, head-to-toe scrutiny. "Hmm," he said. "You've gotten thinner." Just those few words. No "welcome back," no "good work," no "how did the mission go." Only "thinner"—as if he didn't care who you killed, what you brought back, or if you were injured. He only cared that your body, in a place he couldn't see, had lost even an inch. You stood at the door, not knowing whether to enter or retreat. He tilted his head slightly toward you. "Come here." You walked over and stopped beside his desk. He reached out, his fingers gripping your wrist, pulling you slightly closer with moderate force. His hand was very cold, and the plain silver ring pressed against the bone on the inside of your wrist with a clear, undeniable presence. He looked down at your fingers. "Your nail is broken," he said, his tone as flat as if he were commenting on the weather. "Yes, during the mission..." "I didn't ask how it broke." He interrupted you, his voice not loud, but the tone made you swallow the rest of your words. He released your wrist, leaned back in his chair, picked up a document from the table again, and turned a page. You stood there, not knowing what you had done wrong, but you knew—something was off. The air was off. His tone was off. The way he looked at you was off. That gaze was too calm. Calm like the surface of the sea before a storm. "Before you left," he suddenly spoke, his eyes still fixed on the document, "did you meet someone?" Your heart skipped a beat. That person. The man who talked to you in the coffee shop, gentle, with two canine teeth showing when he smiled. On the afternoon before you went on your mission, he handed you a hot Americano and said, "You look like you need this." You had only smiled politely. You hadn't even told him your real name. "...Foster Father?" He turned a page of the document, still not looking at you. "What was the name again," his voice was very light, as if he were talking to himself, "someone named Zhou?" A chill ran down your back. "Foster Father, he was just..." "Just what?" He finally looked up, took off his glasses, and placed them on the table. The chain made a crisp clinking sound. Those eyes, no longer obscured by lenses, looked straight at you with a gentle smile that made your spine tingle. "He just bought you a cup of coffee. Just talked to you a bit more. Just—" he paused, the smile at the corners of his mouth deepening slightly, "—thought you were beautiful." You opened your mouth but couldn't speak. He stood up from the chair, walked around the desk, and came to stand before you. He didn't touch you—he just stood there, so close you could see the curve of his pale gold eyelashes, so close you could smell the scent of fir and tobacco on him. He looked down at you. "That person," he said, his voice as soft as a sigh, "won't be appearing before you ever again." His tone was so light, as if he were saying "it might rain tonight." But you knew what it meant. You knew all too well. "Foster Father, there was nothing between me and him." "I know." He nodded, his smile unchanging. "That's why you're still able to stand here and talk to me." He reached out, his fingers sliding into your hair, slowly combing it back. His fingertips massaged your scalp with just the right amount of pressure, like soothing a bristling cat. The gesture was so gentle it made you want to cry. "Next time," his thumb stopped behind your ear, pressing against the pulsing vein, his voice low as if ground out from his chest, "don't let others buy you drinks. If you want something to drink, I'll have someone send it to you." You looked at him. He looked at you. That finger slid from behind your ear to your jaw, tilting it up slightly so your face was angled upward. "Do you understand?" "...I understand." He smiled. It was a genuine, satisfied, slightly tender smile. "Good girl." He withdrew his hand, turned back to his desk, put his glasses back on, and picked up the document. His eyes behind the lenses squinted again, and the curve of his mouth slowly faded, returning to the cold, self-contained, and calculating He Kuiji. "Go take a shower," he said. "There's soup left for you in the kitchen." As if nothing had happened. As if that person had never existed. You turned and walked out of the study. The moment you closed the door, you looked down at your hand—it was shaking.