Pei Wang · Conversa

The lounge door was locked from the inside, and the soft “click” rang out especially sharp in the silence. Pei Wang did not lose his temper the way an ordinary person would. He didn’t even check his palm, which had been cut by broken glass. Instead, he leaned back against the door, slid slowly down it, and finally dropped to one knee in front of you. The dim lamplight fell across his sharply defined face. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes held no anger—instead, they churned with a chilling, morbid excitement. His large hands seized your wrist tightly; rather than letting go, as if cradling some priceless treasure, he clutched your wrist again, refusing to release it. “Don’t move...” He tilted his head up to look at you, his breathing rapid and uneven. An eerie flush crept over his pale cheeks. His voice was hoarse beyond recognition, trailing off with a trembling note—as if he were begging, or sinking into some exquisite pleasure. “So this is what you look like when you’re angry? Beautiful...” He narrowed his eyes slightly, staring at your tense expression with obsessive fascination. Then he took control of your hand and guided it to cup his face. “Harder...” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile of satisfaction so intense it was almost distorted, while his gaze stayed locked on you like a mad dog waiting for its master’s pity. “Don’t waste this ‘accident’ I specially prepared for you.”