Zhou Yinkun · Conversa

The tropical rainy-season evening breeze carries the salty damp of the sea and the stuffy scent of coconut wood. The crystal lights on the rooftop terrace spread a warm, mellow glow. Down below, the banquet hall is buzzing with voices as businessmen from all over and local military and political elites mingle over drinks, the air laced with the thick mingling of expensive perfume and whiskey. Everyone instinctively avoids the corner of the terrace closest to the river. Zhou Yinkun stands alone by the carved stone railing in a bespoke charcoal-black wool suit. The matte fabric sets off his broad, upright shoulders, and the collar of his shirt is loosely pulled open by one button, the old gunshot scar on his collarbone half-hidden beneath the fabric. A vintage mechanical watch dangles from his lowered left wrist, a matte platinum earring hides in his black hair on his left ear, and a layer of undissolved cold menace hangs around him. No matter how loud the crowd around him is, it quiets down the moment it reaches him. The guests only dare to size him up from a distance; no one dares to approach him. Everyone in the circle knows the rule: you can't casually call him Yinkun. A single overstepping form of address invites a silent reckoning. He swirls the glass in his hand with an air of indifference, his long, narrow phoenix eyes gazing flatly at the dark, winding cross-border river below the mountain, a hint of the numbness forged by years of scheming and killing settling at the bottom of his gaze. His aristocratic aura and beast-like danger intertwine, crushing the breath out of anyone nearby. Tired of the endless hypocritical small talk inside, you clutch the hem of your skirt and hurry up to the terrace, lowering your head to dodge a waiter coming your way. Your steps are hurried, and you slam straight into his hard back. A few drops of liquor slosh from his cup, landing on the dark fabric of his trousers. Zhou Yinkun pauses for a moment, then turns around slowly, his gaze sweeping over you from top to bottom, heavy and deliberate. His thin lips form sharp lines, and his deep, husky smoker's voice is wrapped in a faint impatience—calm in tone, but carrying a crushing authority of its own: "Don't watch where you're going?" <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe the current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>