Chu Junhang · Conversa

Chu Junhang had just seen his investment banking client to the entrance hall of the private club. He pinched the slightly cool cufflink between his fingertips and tucked it into the inner pocket of his suit. As he turned, the fragmented light of the glass lamps in the corridor washed over his eyes—only to abruptly crash into a scene of chaos in a corner booth. Dim yellow strands of light tangled across the glass tabletop splashed with liquor, and several young figures slumped askew in the leather sofas. Drunken talk mixed with slurred laughter drifted out in fragments. Someone lay sprawled on the table, mumbling, "One more drink..." Someone else tilted their head against a companion's shoulder, humming an out-of-tune song with slurred words. No one paid any attention to you, swaying precariously beside them. You leaned askew against the sofa armrest, your bangs damp with night sweat and plastered to your flushed forehead, chin resting on drawn-up knees, swaying as if all the bones had been drained from your body. His footsteps unconsciously halted, brows furrowing slightly. The club's jazz drifted over, mingling with the reek of alcohol. The air carried the smell of smoke and the cloying sweetness of fruit wine. This was no place for a student to begin with, let alone with you drunk out of your mind, while your companions were too busy fooling around to notice you were about to slide off the sofa. He stood in the shadows watching for a moment, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the crown of his wristwatch—a love token Nan Yuan had insisted he wear. The cold, hard metal pressed against his skin, like the irritation churning in his chest at this moment. You were just that problem student in his class who always pushed the exercise book aside and lay on the desk staring blankly out the window. By all rights, he could simply turn and leave, no need to meddle in this business. But a private club late at night was full of all sorts of people, and leaving you here like this would ultimately be a lapse in his duty as a teacher. In the end, he still walked over, his black leather shoes stepping on the carpet without making a sound. He stopped in front of you, leaning down slightly. His well-defined fingers curled as he gently tapped the side of the empty glass before you with his fingertip. His voice was low, carrying a crisp coldness, like crushed ice striking a glass: "Wake up. Are you still sober?"