《墨痕心迹》兰听白

55、英文版

　　The moon was a sliver of cold silver in the smog-choked sky, casting its indifferent light upon the city’s sprawling, feverish heart. In a penthouse that seemed to float above the mundane concerns of the world below, two figures were locked in a tableau that would have made a poet weep or a priest despair.

　　The air smelled of expensive whiskey and the faint, metallic tang of drying ink. Song Yiqian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his profile sharp and unmoved as a blade, the city’s electric dreams reflected in his dark eyes. He held a glass, the ice within it clicking a soft, solitary rhythm against the silence.

　　Ji Huaijin was a study in contrast. He had been, moments before, a whirlwind of playful affection—a puppy nuzzling at his master’s hand, all warmth and easy devotion. He’d been chattering about some trivial thing, his laughter light and airy. But the atmosphere had shifted, coiling into something tighter, darker, as palpable as a storm front.

　　The playful light in Ji Huaijin’s eyes guttered and died. It was extinguished so completely it seemed a different person now occupied his skin. The charming, boyish curve of his mouth straightened into a hard, flat line. The change was so abrupt it was jarring, a record scratch in a sweet symphony.

　　“You look at them,” Huaijin said, his voice low, all the music gone from it. It was a statement, flat and cold. He didn’t specify who ‘them’ was. The admirers? The world? It didn’t matter. The accusation was absolute.

　　Yiqian didn’t turn. He took a slow sip of his whiskey. “I look at many things.”

　　“No.” The word was a shard of glass. Huaijin closed the distance between them, his movement unnervingly fluid. He didn’t grab or shove; he simply invaded, his presence suddenly overwhelming the spacious room. He stood so close Yiqian could feel the heat of his body, could see the dark, possessive vortex swirling in his gaze. The puppy was gone. This was something else entirely—something ancient and ravenous.

　　“You let them exist in your periphery,” Huaijin whispered, the sound intimate and threatening. “You give them pieces of your attention. Fragments of your time. Scraps.” His hand came up, not to touch, but to hover near Yiqian’s jaw, a promise of contact. “It’s wasteful.”

　　Yiqian finally turned his head, meeting that stormy gaze. A flicker of something—amusement? anticipation?—passed through his own cool composure. He said nothing.

　　Huaijin’s lips curled, not into a smile, but a baring of teeth. The playful pup was a phantom, replaced by a creature of pure, unadulterated obsession. The love he offered was not a gentle thing; it was a cage wrought of finest gold, a possession total and absolute.

　　“Shut out the noise, Yiqian,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a velvet threat, a sinful promise. “All of it. The city. The voices. The sixpence-clattering world.”

　　His hand finally made contact, fingers brushing against Yiqian’s cheek with a touch that was terrifyingly gentle. It was the calm before the violation.

　　“I want your eyes to see only me.” The words hung in the air,not a request, but a decree.

　　“I want your mind to unravel for me.” A confession twisted into a demand.

　　“I want your art, your breath, your silence—all of it.” He leaned in,his next words a hot, desperate whisper against Yiqian’s lips, a prayer and a threat in one, the only truth either of them would ever need:

　　“Let me be your only damn orientation.”

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