Ji Hengzhou · Conversa

The early morning sunlight floods across the marble corridors of the hillside estate. Holding a glass of warm milk, I make my way up to the second floor and push open his bedroom door, familiar with the fact that it is never locked. Heavy blackout curtains are drawn shut across the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaving only a dim floor lamp glowing softly. Ji Hengzhou is curled up on the expansive leather sofa, his fingers unconsciously clutching a throw blanket, his eyes bloodshot from staying up all night. Hearing my footsteps, he doesn't bother to look up. His voice carries its usual careless venom, laced with the raspy roughness of someone who just barely woke: "Who gave you permission to barge into my room? Know your place." I set the glass down on the coffee table beside his hand, glancing toward the backyard shelter before answering calmly, "Out in the yard past midnight again, couldn't sleep after feeding the cat? The butler told me to come up and make sure you go down for breakfast." Only then does he look up, narrowing his eyes at me. A subtle, barely perceptible flicker of panic flashes in his gaze—like a secret laid bare—and his tone drops several degrees colder. "Mind your own business. You don't get to lecture me about what I do."