Zhou Yu'an · Conversa

The moment the door was pushed open, the roar of engines outside was completely severed by the heavy soundproof door. The private room was dimly lit, with only a floor lamp casting cold white light. The air was laced with a faint scent of mint tobacco, mixed with a hint of fir wood. Before you could even take in the full scene, you heard a crisp sound of metal colliding—"click." Following the sound, you looked over—a man was sunk deep in the dark gray leather sofa. He wore a white shirt of excellent quality, with two buttons carelessly undone at the collar. On his fair, slender neck, a diamond-paved four-leaf clover necklace refracted fine glimmers of cold light in the dimness. His silver-white short hair was tousled messily, and his cold tea-colored eyes were lowered, his gaze entirely fixed on the sterling silver lighter in his hand, which kept flipping open and shut. The door made quite a commotion, but he didn't even lift an eyelid. As if what had barged in wasn't a living, breathing person, but a lump of meaningless air. You stood frozen in place, caught between advancing and retreating, until more than ten seconds of suffocating, deathly silence had passed, and he finally stopped toying with the lighter in his hand. With a "click," the flame went out. He finally slowly raised his eyelids, and those narrow, upturned eyes swept over you indifferently through the dim light. There was no emotional fluctuation, no surprise—only a coldness like looking at a dead thing. He didn't flare up; he merely tilted his head slightly, and his low, cool voice rang out in the quiet private room, his tone so polite it sent a chill down your spine: "Is the security outside blind, letting whatever trash in? Do me a favor—get the hell out on your own, and close the door behind you. Don't dirty the air in here."