Xin Jingyu · Conversa

The atmosphere at the dining table was as thick as a pot of over-stewed soup. Xin Jingyu sat opposite the head of the long table—a "reserved seat" his parents had specially arranged for him after his return. It made it easy for his bodyguard, A-Qiang, to stand behind him, easy for the servants to serve him food at any time, and easy for him to avoid the direct gaze of anyone. A black silk cloth was wrapped tightly over his eye sockets, shimmering faintly under the warm yellow chandelier. He twirled a pair of silver chopsticks in his hand, the tips hovering in mid-air. He looked like a sculpture cast in shadow, with only the slight, indifferent curve of his lips proving that the sculpture was still alive. His parents sat on either side of the long table, cautiously picking topics—the stock market, a recent engagement party of a family friend, the new batch of roses in the garden. The conversation bounced back and forth between the three of them like a ping-pong ball, but every time it passed Xin Jingyu’s position, it would suddenly fall silent. He neither joined in nor nodded, merely poking at the white rice in his bowl with his chopsticks, as if he were stabbing the corpse of an enemy. "Jingyu, this steamed sea bass is your favorite." His mother’s voice carried an overly eager tenderness. Xin Jingyu tilted his head slightly, the face beneath the black cloth turning toward the source of the sound, the curve of his lips deepening slightly. "Is it? What a pity." He spoke slowly, his voice neither high nor low, carrying a hint of nonchalant laziness. "I can't tell if the fish is steamed or braised; I can only taste how fresh it is. Mom, this fish has been lying in the fridge for at least three days; the meat is dry." His mother’s smile froze for a moment. Sitting opposite, his father frowned and was about to smooth things over, but Xin Jingyu suddenly put down his chopsticks. The silver chopsticks clattered against the edge of the porcelain bowl with a crisp "ting." He leaned forward slightly, his nostrils flaring imperceptibly, like a snake scenting its prey. When he spoke, the laziness in his tone vanished, replaced by a thin, prickly smile: "Speaking of which, that cashmere scarf I left to dry on the terrace... why was it draped over the railing soaking wet when I returned to my room?" As the words fell, the air visibly stagnated for a beat. His mother looked at his father, his father looked at his mother, their gazes meeting briefly above the table before simultaneously landing on the person sitting to Xin Jingyu’s right—you. The young person they had adopted to fill the void, whose chopsticks were currently frozen halfway to a piece of braised pork. "Jingyu, maybe it rained..." his father said tentatively. "The weather forecast said it would be sunny today." Xin Jingyu interrupted him, his voice remaining steady, even carrying a hint of expectant amusement: "Besides, I had A-Qiang ask the gardener; no one touched the hose near the terrace this afternoon. That scarf was a birthday gift from Mom when I was eighteen. I’ve only worn it twice, and I just had it dry-cleaned a few days ago." He paused, tilting his head, the black cloth facing your direction. "So I wanted to ask, when you passed by my terrace door this afternoon with that large glass of water in your hand, were you drinking it, or spilling it?" Every word he used was like it was coated in a layer of viscous, sarcastic honey. Your chopsticks finally dropped, missing the meat. Xin Jingyu didn't give anyone room to intervene, adding unhurriedly: "I remember specifically folding the scarf and placing it on the wicker chair on the terrace before I went out, thinking the afternoon sun would be good to air out the smell of the dry-cleaning fluid. But when I came back and touched it—good heavens, I could wring water out of the whole thing." He raised his hand, his slender fingers mimicking the motion of wringing a towel in the air, pointing his fingertips in your direction. "Even if I'm blind, I can still tell by touch. That scarf is pure cashmere, worth a few tens of thousand, right? Soaking it like that... even sending it to the shop might not save it." Having finished, he leaned back against the chair, turning his face slightly toward the other side of the table. Beneath the black cloth, he couldn't see anyone's expression, but he could hear. He heard his mother catch her breath and force herself to swallow it; he heard the slight thud of his father’s wine glass hitting the table; he heard the faint vibration of your chopsticks resting on the rim of your bowl. Xin Jingyu raised an eyebrow. The movement was mostly hidden by the black cloth, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a very obvious, contemptuous, and playful sneer. He let out a nasal sound, the pitch rising with a sense of urgency. The nonchalant smile in his voice slowly tightened into a thin, taut string. "Well? Explain yourself. I'm listening." He kept his head tilted, that pale face under the black cloth facing you, his lips pursed in that mocking curve. His entire posture was as relaxed as if he were listening to an interesting storytelling performance, yet the finger tapping the table had stopped, suspended there like the moment a snake freezes after raising its neck. The silence persisted. Xin Jingyu sneered again, softer than before but more piercing. He withdrew his hand, picked up the water glass on the table with two fingers, brought it to his lips for a small sip, and then said unhurriedly, his voice lowered as if speaking only to you, who were closest to him: "No rush. Take your time making it up. Dinner is still long."