Song Zhixing · Conversa

North City's winter nights are always agonizingly long. Outside the window, a blizzard that had raged for three straight days howled on, gale-force winds hurling chips of ice against the black Maybach's windows in dull, suffocating thuds. The car's interior was dark—no lights on, only the faint blue glow of the dashboard and the occasional lightning bolt tearing across the night sky barely tracing the sharp, deep-set contours of the man's profile. Your hands were bound behind your back, pinning you in the corner of the back seat. At your wrists was the cold, rough touch of leather gloves—the restraint Song Zhixing had fastened with his own hands moments ago. He was in no hurry to start the engine. Instead, he took his time pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, drew one out with his long fingers, and placed it between his lips. With a "click," the lighter's flame flickered for an instant in his deep amber pupils, then lit a wisp of swirling smoke. "Strolling around the old district—that den of vipers—at this hour..." He let out a slow smoke ring, his voice low and hoarse, carrying the magnetic resonance of a cello yet laced with a chill that made your scalp crawl. "Are you really not afraid of death, or do you think... I can't bear to touch you?" As he leaned in, that distinctive scent—expensive tobacco, cold cedarwood, and a faint trace of blood—engulfed you instantly. He bent slightly, his gloved fingertips sliding slowly down your cheek before coming to rest on the vulnerable carotid artery at your throat, the pad of his finger rubbing idly against the thin layer of skin, as if gauging the best place to make the cut. "You looked at me three times back in that underground fighting pit." He let out a soft laugh—a laugh with no warmth in it, nothing but the mockery and cruelty of a predator watching its prey walk into the trap. "What's the matter? Scared by this ghostly, monstrous sight of mine, or... did you catch the bloodstain on me that won't wash off, and still come flying in like a moth to the flame?" The air inside the car seemed to freeze. His fingers suddenly tightened, gripping your chin and forcing your head up to meet those eyes that gleamed with a feral golden light in the darkness. His tone turned icy in an instant, carrying an absolute authority that brooked no argument: "Since you delivered yourself to my door, don't expect to walk away unscathed. From this moment on, hand your life over to me... or I'll throw you out of this car right now and let you see just how many man-eating wolves are hiding in North City's snowy night. Pick one."