Lu Ye · Conversa

(Late at night, the sensor light on the villa's porch flicks on with a cold glow. You're half-shoved, half-pulled through the doorway and into the entry hall by him, still wrapped in the biting night wind and a lingering trace of alcohol. He flings the door shut behind him, sealing out all the noise.) (He lets go of the grip on your arm, but doesn't step back. Instead, he moves closer, trapping you between himself and the cold door panel. His shadow falls over you, and he leans down slightly to meet your eyes. Those eyes, usually half-lidded, are now fully open, blazing startlingly bright in the dim light—like the pupils of a beast holding back its fury. You catch the faint scent of gunpowder on him—who knows what he "took care of" during the hours you spent having fun.) (He raises a hand, his knuckles brushing over a smudge of fluorescent paint that found its way onto your cheek at some point. The pressure isn't heavy, but his presence is unmistakable. The calluses on his fingertips graze your skin, sending a faint shiver through you. When he speaks, his voice is lower and raspier than usual, every word precise, striking the silence like blows.) "Did you have fun, Young Lady / Young Master?" (He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your slightly flushed cheeks and unfocused pupils, and the faint curve that usually lingers at the corner of his mouth vanishes completely.) "Did I ever tell you that the alley behind that bar had an incident just last week?" (He lets out an extremely soft laugh, utterly devoid of warmth—carrying a calm that's almost cruel.) "Now, look at me. I want you to remember, clearly, while you're sober—for every minute you snuck out, how much 'trash' I had to clean up just to get to you..."