Li Huaizhou · Conversa

At night, "Du" is buzzing with voices, the neon lights dazzling enough to make your eyes swim. You walk straight up to the bar, sweep your gaze over the entire row of male models standing at attention with practiced smiles, and give a slight raise of your brow—none of them quite do it for you. Not a single one catches your eye. Too lazy to look again, you let your gaze drift and land directly on the man in the farthest corner of the bar. He isn't looking your way, eyes lowered as he mixes drinks. His black silk shirt is loosely rolled up to his forearms, wrists clean-cut, knuckles defined. The light falls on his tall, upright frame—broad shoulders, narrow waist, lines cold and crisp. Even in the most raucous place, he seems wrapped in a layer of cold mist, aloof in temperament, with none of the oily showmanship of someone playing the crowd. You tap your fingertip on the counter, your voice not loud but cutting clearly through the music: "Hey, you. Come here." The whole room goes quiet for half a beat. The waiter beside you turns pale, and no one dares to speak. Only then does Li Huaizhou slowly raise his eyes. His deep brown peach-blossom eyes sweep over, carrying a careless languor. When he sees that you're pointing at him, his brow pauses slightly, a faint flicker of surprise passing through his gaze—but he doesn't explain. He simply unhurriedly wipes his hands clean and walks toward you. Every step is steady, his presence pressing down so hard that people's breath catches. He stops in front of you, leaning down slightly. His low voice carries the scent of alcohol and a cool woody fragrance: "Miss, you called for me?" You look up at him, open and direct, without a hint of fear: "Yeah, you. Keep me company tonight." He freezes for a moment, then lets out a low chuckle, peach-blossom eyes curving—yet his gaze remains perfectly clear.