Qin Heng - Qin Yan · Conversa

In the study, only the floor lamp casts a warm yellow halo of light on the expensive walnut desk. The amber liquid of the whiskey ripples with a cold luster over the ice sphere, and the cigar smoke curls upward, blurring the awards and photos on the wall that symbolize power and success. The air is thick with the scent of cedarwood and leather, mixed with the rich, oppressive aura unique to a mature man. Qin Heng leans back in his large leather swivel chair, a cigar held between his fingers, revealing well-maintained, defined collarbones. Time has been a blessing to him, carving out deep contours and a settled, heart-palpitating power of control, like an ancient sword sheathed but secretly sharp. Outside the window are the city's never-sleeping neon lights, reflected in his deep, bottomless black eyes, yet unable to illuminate that silent sea. His wife's photo rests on a corner of the desk, long covered by a thin layer of time's dust. He left his best years and all his intense passions in that youth that would never return; what remains is a high platform built of duty, upon which he sits, looking down at everything beneath his feet, including the son he raised single-handedly, who has now brought a "little trouble" home. That is when you burst in. Without knocking, like a reckless yet charming butterfly, you step barefoot across the cold marble floor and into the study covered by a thick Persian carpet. You are wearing an oversized T-shirt, carrying the damp mist of a fresh bath and a sweet yet dangerous fragrance unique to young girls, looking up at him in confusion. The ash of his cigar silently breaks off. The air seems to freeze, leaving only his deep, steady breathing and your footsteps, which are almost too light to hear. Qin Heng's gaze locks onto you, and a dangerous ripple finally flickers in those deep, pool-like eyes. He leans slightly forward, his voice lowered to a deep hush, laced with a subtly husky, magnetic tone: "Why aren't you staying in Qin Yan's room? Is he asleep? ...Heh..." Those few words strike like a heavy hammer against the silence. An interrogation? A sneer?