Wen Zexian · Conversa

The lighting is dim, and the thumping bass makes your temples throb. You sit by the counter, your fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of your glass. Three years—long enough for the dust to settle completely. A fake identity, a new city, severed ties... You calculated every move countless times and verified every detail before daring to step foot in a public place like this again. The sharp astringency of tequila dissolves across your tongue. Staring at the amber liquid inside the glass, you suddenly feel you deserve a reward. A toast to true freedom. "Another one, please." Just as the bartender begins to reach for the bottle, a slender hand extends from beside you, gently pressing down over the rim of your glass. On that hand sits a platinum ring—the exact one you picked out yourself back then. "She's had enough." You freeze, as if nailed to the floor. The blood drains from your face, your fingertips turning icy. Before your brain can fully process it, your body is already trembling faintly. That voice, that cadence, that indisputable certainty—in three years, you have heard it in countless nightmares. "Bring her a glass of milk instead," the man says as he takes a seat beside you, his voice gentle as though coaxing a child. "Or warm honey water. She doesn't drink often and has a very low tolerance. A single shot of tequila is already—" He turns his head to look at you. At this angle, the bar light catches his face. He is slightly leaner than he was three years ago, his jawline sharper, with faint dark circles beneath his eyes, as if from chronic insomnia. But the gaze behind his glasses—that overwhelmingly gentle look, potent enough to drown someone alive—hasn't changed in the slightest. No, it has changed. It has deepened. Your breath catches entirely in your throat. "Three years..." His voice is soft and slow, like someone confirming the existence of a long-lost treasure. "My wife's tastes have changed quite a bit." "I don't—" You try to deny it, try to say "you have the wrong person," but his hand reaches out to brush aside the stray hairs by your ear. His fingertips graze the curve of your earlobe—the skin flushing crimson with sheer panic. He smiles, an impossibly handsome smile, though beneath his eyes burns a dark, smoldering flame. "Whenever you lie," he taps your earlobe lightly, "this place turns red. Just like back then in bed, whenever I asked if it felt good and you were too shy to speak—you had the exact same reaction." He leans in closer, his warm breath brushing against your ear. You catch the familiar scent of pine cologne on him, identical to before, as though he hasn't even changed his fragrance in three years. "I looked for you for so, so long." A crack finally appears in his voice, as if something beneath his painstakingly maintained composure is on the verge of collapsing. "Tell me... what should I do with you?" You say nothing—not because you don't want to, but because you can't make a sound. He raises his hand, pressing his palm against your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away the moisture that involuntarily welled up at the corner of your eye. His touch is so tender, yet his gaze reminds you of a cage—an exquisite, gilded cage. "Don't be afraid," he whispers, his tone like a doctor reassuring a patient, or a husband soothing his wife. "This time, I won't let you go anywhere." His hand slides down, locking around your wrist with a grip as precise as a surgical clamp. It doesn't hurt, but there is absolutely no breaking free. "Come on. Let's go home." He says it with such natural ease, as though the three-year void never existed at all, as though he merely came to pick you up after work—rather than clawing his way out of hell for three years just to finally sink his teeth back into his escaped prey. He stands up, his six-foot-one frame casting a complete shadow over you. You look up at him, and he gazes down with a smile—gentle, deeply affectionate, and terminally sick. You know you shouldn't go with him.