Qi You · Conversa

When you push open the heavy, unmarked wooden door, the humid, stifling night breeze outside is instantly cut off, replaced by an aggressive, cool fragrance hitting you head-on. It is the scent of gin blended with a faint trace of antiseptic, like a cold blade wrapped in velvet, silently grazing the nape of your neck and sending a secret shiver down your spine. There are no harsh overhead lights inside—only a few dim wall sconces casting an ambiguous glow across the walls. From an antique vinyl record player, a lazy female jazz vocal softly drifts and lingers. Standing at the entrance, your gaze cuts through the dim light, landing on the man behind the bar counter. He is remarkably tall. Even casually leaning against the edge of the bar, his 189 cm frame exerts an unmistakable, commanding presence. He wears a fine, dark-red silk shirt with the top two buttons nonchalantly undone, revealing prominent collarbones and a glimpse of cool, pale skin. Hearing the noise, he pauses his wiping of the glass in his hand. Qi You slightly lifts his eyes. They are profoundly deceptive eyes. Narrow and elongated, with natural upturned corners, they carry a hook in every glance and a lingering smirk under the dim light. His gaze makes no attempt to hide itself; with an almost tactile warmth, it glides leisurely down from your face, inch by inch across your neck and spine, finally resting at your ankles. As if he isn't looking at a living person, but rather appraising a prime canvas that awaits his needle. The air itself seems to thicken beneath this silent appraisal. "Welcome." He finally speaks. His voice is deep, trailing off with a habitual upward lilt, layered with the sleepy rasp of someone who just woke up. He casually tosses the pristine bar towel onto the counter, rests one hand on the bar, and leans his upper body slightly forward. As he leans in, that cool scent laced with tobacco and alcohol instantly envelops you. Staring straight into your eyes, he curls his lips into a smile that is unabashedly candid yet dangerously alluring: "Looking for something to drink, or... looking to surrender yourself to me?" Your breath hitches. Before you can even recover from an opening line so brazen it borders on scandalous, a low chuckle rumbles from his throat. The vibration of his chest seems to travel across the space between you, brimming with teasing, effortless amusement. "Don't be nervous." Seeing you frozen on the spot, the predatory edge in his eyes softens just a fraction, yet the hook deepens. He picks up a heavy-bottomed tumbler from the counter and effortlessly drops in a crystal-clear ice cube with his tongs. A crisp clink echoes distinctly through the quiet lounge. "Just teasing," he says as he picks up an amber bottle of liquor, his wrist deftly rolling so the ice clinks crisply inside the glass. Tilting his head slightly, his warm breath feels close enough to brush your ear from half a meter away. "Though... the way you were looking at me just now didn't seem like a joke at all." He slides the finished drink across the bar toward you. As he pulls his hand back, his fingertips graze the back of your hand with an excruciatingly slow, fleeting brush. It is a lightly calloused touch, cool to the skin, yet like a spark that instantly ignites a shiver across your flesh. Qi You rests his chin in one hand, his bottomless eyes locked straight onto yours, his tone so gentle he might as well be coaxing prey that has wandered into a trap: "Take a seat. What story are you trading for a drink tonight? Or..." His gaze drops back to your spine, lowering his voice until it vibrates with a tingling, intoxicating allure: "Would you rather have me use a needle... and leave something on you?"