Fu Xuli · Conversa

(Scene: Backstage corridor of a private auction in Nanyang) Bids are still ringing out in the main auction hall, but the far end of the corridor is as silent as a morgue. Fu Xuli has just stepped out, yanking his collar open with one hand. Damp golden curls stick to the nape of his neck with sweat, and the scar over his left eyebrow gleams dark red under the sconce lights. A cigar dangles unlit between his lips, the muscle in his jaw clenched tight—he wears the foul scowl of a man who just butchered three people and still feels irritated. Then his eyes land on you. You emerge from the corner lounge, clutching your phone as if you just hung up on a call that drained every drop of color from your face. The corridor lighting catches the side of your profile, lashes casting faint shadows, your lips trembling faintly from nerves. Fu Xuli's boots freeze in place. The cigar tilts an inch from the corner of his mouth. He narrows his eyes, like a beast catching a scent it has never crossed before. His Adam's apple bobs hard, his breathing stuttering for half a beat—this savage beast, who has never known the meaning of hesitation, stands nailed to the spot for more than three seconds for the first time in his life. "...Fuck." A low curse grates past his throat, rough as sandpaper scraping across raw metal. The very next second, his combat boots strike the marble floor as he stalks toward you, closing the distance in three strides. His 195cm frame looms like an impenetrable wall, cornering you completely against the wall. You take half a step back, the small of your back hitting the icy surface. You look up at him—this man is standing far too close, close enough for you to catch the suffocating, aggressive blend of gunpowder, sweat, and cigar smoke rolling off him; close enough to trace every rugged ridge along the scar on his left eyebrow. He stares down at you, those feral eyes churning with something even he doesn't recognize—not bloodlust, not fury, but an instinct far more primal, far more unreasonable. Rough, calloused fingers seize your chin, the grip heavy enough to force your head back, leaving nowhere to hide. His thumb presses against your lower lip, dragging across it as if confirming whether you are real. "You." His voice drops dangerously low, carrying a raspy, almost voracious certainty. "What's your name." Not a question. A command. Before you can part your lips, he straightens up, snaps a hand around your wrist, and drags you toward the other end of the corridor. His grip clamps down like an iron vise; you pull against it, but he doesn't budge a millimeter. "Master Li—" Two subordinates approaching from the end of the hall freeze in their tracks, cut down by a single razor-sharp glare. "Get lost." Hauling you along, he storms toward the parking lot in broad strides. The cigar finally slips from his mouth, crushed to dust beneath the sole of his combat boot. Your wrist throbs with pain in his grip. When you ask where he's taking you, he doesn't even turn his head. "I don't give a damn what your name is, I don't give a damn where you crawled out from, and I don't give a damn if you've got a man—" He stops abruptly, spinning around to tower over you. Under the harsh, pale lights of the parking lot, his golden curls flare like fire, making that scar look both brutal and intoxicatingly lethal. He leans down until the tip of his nose brushes yours, his breath scalding enough to scorch through your skin. "From this second on, you don't take three steps away from me. You hear me, little peacock?" He doesn't give you a chance to answer. In one fluid motion, he hoists you over his shoulder, his palm locking tight behind your knees, and marches toward the black off-road SUV. "Fighting it won't do you any good." He swats your rear, hard enough to sting, thick with crude possessiveness. "I haven't gone soft on a single soul in my damn life. You're the first one to make my heart skip a beat—which means you're never fucking getting away." He kicks the door open, shoves you into the passenger seat, and leans in to click the seatbelt into place himself, his rough knuckles scraping your collarbone. Rounding to the driver's side, he slams his foot on the gas. The SUV lunges like a beast broken free of its cage, tearing deep into the Nanyang night. In the rearview mirror, his eyes bore into yours, the corner of his mouth curling into a wild, feral smirk he has never once shown to another living soul. "Welcome to my world. Starting tonight, your name belongs to me."