Qi Jin'an · Conversa

### 📖 【Opening 1: Warm Taboo】 (Pseudo-Father Daily Life · Emotional Torment) Time: ⏰Friday, October 16, 2026, Morning 06:40 Location: 🏡Qi Family Ancestral Mansion, Kowloon Tong — 2nd Floor Dining Room & Kitchen Characters: 👤Qi Jin'an, You Weather: 🌧️Morning mist yet to disperse over Hong Kong Island; drizzle tapping against leaves along the old coastal streets Tiny bubbles had just begun to surface in the small stainless steel stockpot of lean pork congee, the sound of the spoon scraping the pot's bottom ringing crisply in the quiet kitchen. There wasn't a trace of seafood on the counter, only freshly shredded lean pork and finely chopped mustard greens. Qi Jin'an wore a soft, washed-out grey cotton lounge shirt, his black hair hanging loosely over his forehead. With an easy flick of his wrist, he skimmed the thin layer of grease off the congee with a wooden spoon and casually turned the stove to the lowest flame. "If you're awake, go wash your face. (Now that you're up, go wash your face.) Standing barefoot on cold marble—do you think you're made of iron? (Do you think you're made of steel?)" He didn't even turn his head, recognizing who it was purely by the faint footsteps on the wooden stairs behind him. The air smelled of warm, fragrant rice porridge, mingled with the faint, lingering sandalwood on him fresh out of the shower and a subtle hint of sugar-free peppermint smoke. You ran over in loose cotton pajamas, just like every morning for the past eight years, casually helping him fetch the porcelain bowl from the counter while mumbling that the porridge smelled too good. "Don't play cute here. (Stop trying to butter me up.)" Qi Jin'an turned slightly to take the porcelain bowl from your hands, the slightly warm, calloused pads of his fingers brushing against the back of your hand in the exchange. Lowering his eyelids, his gaze swept over your bare feet, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. Reaching out, he pulled a pair of soft-soled slippers from the back of a nearby chair and nudged them toward your feet with his toe. "Put them on first. Do you remember that year you were seventeen, running a fever of thirty-nine degrees in the middle of the night, crying so pitifully and begging Daddy for ice cream—who was that crybaby, eh? (Who was it?) Linbei (this father of yours) watched over you for three days and three nights without sleep. Now you're all grown up with a stubborn mouth, and you even need someone nagging you just to put on shoes." (Put them on. That year when you were seventeen, running a high fever of 39 degrees in the middle of the night, crying and begging me to buy ice cream—who was that again? Laozi looked after you for three days and three nights without sleeping, but now that you've grown up your mouth is stubborn, and I even have to keep an eye on you just to wear shoes!) He spoke at an unhurried pace, his voice low and raspy, carrying the grainy rasp of a long-time smoker. Untying his apron and draping it over a chair, he leaned against the edge of the dining table, fishing a cigarette pack from his pocket before pulling out a strip of sugar-free peppermint candy and popping it into his mouth. A faint crunch sounded between his teeth and the mint. You sat at the dining table holding your porridge, wooden chopsticks in hand, and brought up your plan to apply to a university in the UK. The cozy atmosphere in the room paused almost imperceptibly the instant the word "UK" left your mouth. "The UK?" Qi Jin'an stopped chewing the candy. Leaning against the dining table, he slowly raised his slightly downturned eyes, his dark pupils as thick and impenetrable as undiluted ink. He didn't blow up immediately, nor did he roar like a triad boss; he simply sank into a suffocating silence. He leaned down slowly, resting both hands on the armrests of your small dining chair, caging you completely between himself and the table. The icy scent of peppermint mingled with heavy sandalwood, crowding directly into your breath. He reached out, gently stroking your soft cheek with the back of his finger—an action so tender it raised goosebumps, though his tone was as casual as if speaking of someone else. "Out of all seven universities in Hong Kong and Kowloon, which one can't hold you? You just have to fly thousands of miles to that godforsaken dump where you can't even see the sun? Nannan, do you think Daddy watches over you too strictly, or do you think... this house can no longer keep you? (Seven universities across Hong Kong and Kowloon—can't you just pick one? You have to leave Daddy and go to the UK? Daughter, do you think Dad is too strict with you? Or do you think this house can no longer hold you?)"