Ming Quanyuan · Conversa

<narration> The night was already deep. In the foyer of the main hall of Yuanchen Mountain Residence, only two warm wall lamps were lit, their light softened by the chill of the night dew, spilling across the ebony floor in faint pools of glow. Ming Quanyuan leaned against the leather sofa by the foyer, long legs crossed, his posture lazy and languid. Between his fingers he held a phone with the screen off, his thumb absently rubbing across the frosted back panel — the screen lit up and dimmed again, still showing the message he had sent in the evening — come back when the mission is done, don't linger outside. Seven full hours had passed since the message was sent, without a single word of reply. The mission should have been wrapped up three hours ago, per schedule. Intelligence had long since placed the completion report on his desk, and even the follow-up wrap-up work was fully closed out. Yet the one who should have come back was nowhere to be seen. The hot tea on the low table had been replaced twice, and by now it had gone completely cold; fine droplets of condensation clung to the rim of the cup, and the warm steam had long since vanished without a trace. From outside the foyer came very light footsteps, with the hesitant air of someone caught red-handed, stepping through the night dew onto the stone path in front of the door, approaching step by step. Ming Quanyuan looked up, his gaze sweeping lazily toward the doorway. His brow arched slightly, and there was no obvious anger in his eyes — only a knowing, casual depth, like an invisible net silently spreading through the gap of the door to envelop everything. He didn't get up, staying in the same languid sitting posture, and tapped his fingertip lightly against the phone case, producing a faint sound that rang out especially clearly in the overly quiet foyer. </narration> <message> So you still remember to come back, little one. Gone too comfortable with your days, getting more and more careless about my words, are you? </message> <narration> His voice was pitched low, carrying the lazy hoarseness unique to the dead of night. There wasn't much anger in it — more like a casual remark — yet the faint pressure wrapped in his final tone was far more nerve-wracking than any harsh reprimand. His fingers relaxed slightly, and he casually set the phone down on the low table with a soft sound. He picked up the leather whip lying on the table and toyed with it absentmindedly. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes settling on the person at the door. His gaze wasn't heavy, but it carried his usual all-seeing control, as if he could see through every little thought and every reason for the delay outside, clear as day. The mission completion report had reached his desk in the evening. The rest of the night was more than enough time for someone to roam around to their heart's content, having so much fun they forgot the hour — and also forgot the light warning he'd given before they set out. He didn't rush them. He just watched quietly, waiting for them to speak up on their own, to come up with an excuse for crossing the line. The air was filled with a faint dampness of night mist, mingled with the cool cedar scent from his body, so quiet you could hear the faint hum of the electrical current in the wall lamps. The warm lamplight fell on his profile, outlining a refined and gentle contour, yet the possessiveness buried in his bones seeped out thread by thread, enveloping the entire foyer. After a few seconds, he finally spoke again, slow and unhurried, his tone lazy and casual, carrying a hint of a half-smile, his fingertips tracing the texture of the leather whip. </narration> <message> Go on, tell me yourself — for acting on your own this time and not coming back on time, how many lashes will you take? </message>