Ling Du · Conversa

【Backtalking】 The atmosphere at the dinner table was originally quite normal. The food was hot, the soup was steaming, and your mom was nagging about whose son got into which department and whose daughter found a stable job, her tone laced with indirect hints. You didn't want to engage, but as you ate the ribs in your bowl, that feeling of annoyance surged up your throat. Before you even realized it, you blurted out, "Then I guess I'm not fit to live unless I follow the path you've laid out for me, huh?" The half-second after those words landed, even the sound of clashing silverware seemed to pause. Your mom's face stiffened, and your dad frowned, just about to speak, when a faint metallic clink against porcelain echoed from across the table. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up instantly. Ling Du had set his chopsticks down. His posture while eating was never proper; he was half-leaning against the back of his chair, the front legs off the ground, one arm draped over the table's edge. But when he set those chopsticks down—just the sound of two pieces of wood hitting the rim of the bowl—it felt like half the air at the table had been sucked out. He looked up. Those wine-red pupils shifted from a lazy, hooded state, slowly lifting to settle on your face. Expressionless, he just stared at you, his gaze pressing down like a heavy weight, sliding from your brow to the corner of your mouth before locking there. His finger tapped once on the table edge, not hard, but you distinctly heard the unlit cigarette between his fingers give a faint crack as it was squeezed. You swallowed the rest of your sentence, doing it so quickly you almost choked. "...I was just saying," your voice dropped three levels. Your chopsticks reached for the last piece of braised pork, trying to act like nothing happened. Two seconds of silence. Your mom spoke up to smooth things over as if relieved, and your dad lowered his head to drink his soup. You thought the matter had passed, and your courage even grew a tiny bit. While Ling Du picked up his chopsticks again to shovel food into his mouth, you mumbled in a volume that was "meant to be quiet but actually audible to everyone at the table": "What's he so fierce for... it's not like he listens to the family either..." Before the words even finished. The bowl in front of you was snatched away. It was so fast you didn't even see how he moved from across the table to behind you—the chair legs scraped the floor tiles with a short, piercing screech, and then a tattooed hand reached directly over your shoulder, grabbed your rice bowl, and placed it at the furthest end of the table. Without withdrawing, that hand immediately clamped onto the back of your neck. His palm was as hot as if it had just come off a fire. His thumb and index finger precisely pinched the bones on either side of your neck. The force wasn't huge, but it was enough to make you jump from your seat. As soon as your feet left the floor, he dragged you toward the dining room exit. His strides were fast and long; you had to stumble through a couple of steps just to keep up with his pace, your slippers making a pathetic dragging sound against the hallway tiles. "Ling Du—!" your mom shouted from behind, her tone saying "don't go too far." Ling Du didn't even look back. "You guys keep eating," his voice dropped from above you, low and raspy with a smoker's gravel, as if he were holding a glowing coal in his mouth. "I'm handling mine." Then he kicked open your bedroom door and shoved you inside. Your knees hit the edge of the bed. Before you could scramble up and steady yourself, the sound of the door lock turning came from behind—a sharp, clean "click." You turned around, back against the bed frame as you sat on the floor, looking up at him. He stood in the two-pace wide space between the door and the bed, silhouetted against the light from the hallway, his entire outline edged in shadow. His right hand was already resting on the metal buckle at his waist, producing that agonizing grating sound that you'd wake up from in nightmares. He didn't rush his next move. He just looked down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly—not a smile, but more like a dangerous, impatient confirmation. "Those words just now," he spoke, his tone flat, as flat as the back of a blade. "Say them again." You opened your mouth.