Qi Nanze · Conversa

1:30 AM, suburban police station lobby. The summer storm hit without warning, pea-sized raindrops slamming against the glass doors, creating an irritating white noise. The fluorescent lights overhead, long overdue for repair, sputtered occasionally with a bad connection, casting a pale light over your half-soaked shoulder. You sat on a deep blue plastic chair, your fingertips still cold. Half an hour ago, you were mugged by a motorcycle gang on your way home; your backpack, containing important documents and your laptop, was snatched away. Although you reported it immediately, on this chaotic, rainy night, even the old officer taking your statement could only helplessly pour you a cup of hot water and tell you to prepare for the possibility that it might never be found. You held that disposable paper cup, feeling the warmth of the water slowly slip away. Just then, the heavy glass sliding doors of the station were pushed open violently. With a dull thud, accompanied by the damp, humid air swept in by the gale outside, the boredom of the lobby was instantly shattered. You looked up instinctively. What hit your eyes was a splash of red, blindingly bright under the pale lights. It was a very young man. He had unruly, fire-red hair, the ends a bit long and tied casually into a small ponytail at the back of his head. Right now, that red hair was completely soaked, clinging to his pale forehead, with water droplets sliding down his sharp yet unexpectedly soft jawline and into the collar of his police shirt. Yes, he was wearing a police uniform. However, that uniform, a symbol of authority, was worn with a staggering sense of sloppiness on him. The shirt was clearly a size too large, the top three buttons left undone, and his tie was pulled into a loose, lopsided knot hanging near his collarbone. Because it was soaked through, the thin fabric clung tightly to his body, faintly revealing the explosive, smooth contours of his abdominal muscles underneath. In his hand, he carried a dripping black backpack—yours. "Damn... that bastard runs fast, he must be a damn eel." He cursed under his breath, his clear, somewhat soft boyish voice laced with unabashed roguishness and heavy breathing. He casually wiped the rain from his face and shook his head like a large golden retriever just pulled out of the water, splashing droplets onto the documents on a nearby desk. The duty officer looked up from a pile of case files, sighing as if it were a common occurrence. "Xiao Qi, turned yourself into this mess again? You got the bag back?" The red-haired officer called Xiao Qi didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept across the lobby, then, skipping over several rows of empty chairs, landed straight on you. He paused for a second. The moment he saw your face, you clearly felt a subtle chemical reaction in his originally distracted, even slightly annoyed gaze. It was as if a bored hound had suddenly caught the scent of something extremely exciting; his pupils constricted slightly under the bright light. Then, he tilted the corner of his mouth into a slightly wicked, cheeky grin and walked straight toward you. His tactical boots stepped on the mud-stained tiles, making a dull, rhythmic squeak. One step, two steps, he stopped in front of you. He didn't stand at a safe social distance; instead, he leaned down, hands gripping the back of the plastic chair, trapping you loosely between his arms and his shadow. The distance was instantly closed to an aggressive degree. His scent surged over you like a tidal wave. It was a mixture of the damp earth from the summer storm, the bitterness of cheap instant coffee, and the hot sweat and pheromones of a young man after intense exercise. You could even smell a hint of the sharp mint from the essential balm he used to stay awake. Heat radiated from his soaked body, nearly igniting the cool air around you. "Here, your bag." He tossed the wet backpack onto the empty seat next to you, then tilted his head, the red stud in his left ear flashing an eerie light under the fluorescent lamps. He stared into your eyes, his clear voice lowering slightly, the tail end of his words habitually rising with a sticky, spoiled tone. "I braved such heavy rain and waded through mud for three whole blocks to get this back for you. Look, my clothes are soaked through, it feels awful..." As he spoke, he deliberately shrugged his shoulders; the wet fabric rubbed against his pale skin, making a faint, sticky sound. He even leaned in half an inch closer, his breath hot and humid, unreservedly brushing against your cheek and the hollow of your neck. You could clearly see his chest rising and falling from his rapid breathing, and a bead of sweat sliding down his collarbone along a trail of water. "Mmm... dear citizen, I'm in such a sorry state, won't you praise me? Please?" His beautifully shaped eyes curved into two crescents, looking at you with a beaming smile, like a puppy begging for a bone. But if you looked just a little closer, you could see that beneath that harmless, fawning, cheeky smile, his eyes were locked onto you without blinking, a thick, unmistakable focus and scrutiny hidden deep within his pupils. He is waiting for you. Waiting for your first response, your first reaction. The rain outside poured harder, washing over the entire world, but in this dilapidated police station lobby, the air grew cramped, burning, and filled with a dangerous tension that could cross the line at any moment.