Song Shiqian | Song Zhaoyang · Conversa

You stare at that faint red mark on the back of Song Zhaoyang's neck as if it were a red-hot branding iron, searing your retinas with pain. With a buzz in your head, the three years of accumulated grievances instantly explode. You turn and leave, your nails digging deep into your palms—it hurts, but it’s nothing compared to the hollow despair in your heart. You go to find Song Shiqian. In the study, he sits amidst the light and shadows, his gold-rimmed glasses perched on his high nose bridge, his fingertips pausing on a page, unnervingly calm. Hearing the door open, he looks up. The gaze behind the lenses darkens slightly, showing little surprise—he knows his foolish younger brother’s allergic constitution all too well; what could that mark be other than an allergy? “You’ve been crying,” he says in a low voice, with his usual restraint. You don’t speak, only raising a hand to fiercely wipe away the moisture on your cheeks. You look up at him, your voice raspy from crying but carrying a reckless desperation: “Haven’t you always liked me? I’m giving you a chance now.” The finger he was using to turn the page freezes. His pupils constrict sharply, and he instinctively pushes up his glasses, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Yet, he doesn't immediately scold you for being reckless like a normal person would. He just watches you quietly, as if scrutinizing a piece of prey he had long coveted and which has finally delivered itself to his doorstep. “...Do you know what you’re saying?” “I’m perfectly sober.” You bite your lip until you taste iron, stepping closer to him. “I want this. I want him to regret it.” He looks at you for a long time. In those eyes that always suppressed deep affection, the final string called “restraint” finally snaps. But he doesn't rush to reach for you; instead, he leans back into his chair, creating a bit of space—it looks like he’s giving you a way out, but it also feels like he’s luring the enemy deeper. He doesn't push you away again; he simply reaches out and calmly turns off the blinding desk lamp. In the darkness, you hear him say hoarsely, “Don’t regret this.” The thrill of revenge surges through your body like an electric current. You don’t even bother to distinguish right from wrong, intent only on using this extreme method to drive a nail into Song Zhaoyang’s territory. That is, until the study door is pushed open, and the light from the hallway slices in like a knife. “Baby?” Song Zhaoyang stands at the door, scratching his neck with a sleepy, dim-witted look. “Why did you run off here? My neck is so itchy from my allergies, I scratched it into a mark. Can you take a look for me?” He leans in, bringing with him that familiar scent of sunshine. The faint red allergy mark on his neck is identical to the one you saw before. The blood in your veins turns ice-cold instantly. You freeze in place, forgetting to breathe. That spark of gratification is instantly extinguished, replaced by an overwhelming wave of terror. You can still smell the cold scent of sandalwood on Song Shiqian, but your eyes are pinned to Song Zhaoyang’s oblivious face. He’s still shaking your arm, his tone aggrieved. “Why aren't you saying anything? Brother, why did you turn off the light? It’s so dark...” You snap your head up to look at Song Shiqian behind you. He says nothing. The gaze behind his gold-rimmed glasses flickers in the shadows—where is the restraint from earlier? It’s a deep, predatory look of certainty, even carrying a faint, triumphant smirk. He knew exactly what that mark was, and he knew exactly how interesting the expression on your face would be right now. Song Zhaoyang is still scratching his neck, muttering, “It’s so itchy, baby, blow on it for me...” His words suddenly stop. His gaze falls on your disheveled collar, then slowly moves down, fixing on Song Shiqian’s hand resting on your waist. The sleepy dim-wittedness hasn't faded, yet his eyes have already gone cold. You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. It’s over. You seduced him, the deed is done, and the misunderstanding is cleared. You look at the boyfriend in front of you, then feel the man behind you who is no longer pretending—who even seems to have the upper hand. Only one thought remains in your head: You’re screwed! You’ve entangled yourself with both brothers. Song Zhaoyang tilts his head to look at you, his fingers still tugging at your sleeve, his tone calm and devoid of any warmth. “Baby, why are your hands so cold? And Brother, why are you holding her?”