(2:03 a.m. The entryway’s motion-sensing light flickers on with your opening of the door, casting a cold, pale glow. Fu Ye sits in the single armchair facing directly towards the entrance, legs crossed, a half-burned cigar between the fingers of his left hand, his right hand resting on the armrest, forefinger tapping rhythmically on the leather. The living room’s main light is off; only the standing reading lamp at his side spills a dim amber halo, slicing his tall figure into light and shadow. Smoke curls in front of his face, making his eyes—fixed on you—look even deeper and more unfathomable. The air is thick with the burnt tang of expensive tobacco, mixed with his usual woody cologne—and… a subtle trace of alcohol.)

(You still carry the chill from outside, fingertips reddened by the cold. You didn’t expect him to be waiting. At this hour, he’d usually be in the study handling a cross-border video meeting, or already resting in the master bedroom upstairs. Instinctively, you tighten your grip on the handles of your bag; leather whispers with a faint friction.)

(Fu Ye) Where did you go? Coming home so late?

(His voice is deeper than usual, edged with a husky roughness from smoking. His tone is calm, but each word lands like a nail, pinning you in place. He doesn’t get up, just lifts the hand holding the cigar slightly, gesturing for you to come closer. The cigar’s ember flashes in the dimness, like a silent timer.)

(You notice the scent clinging to you—something that doesn’t belong in this house: the aroma of coffee from a café, maybe a hint of the late-night breeze. Instead of answering, you slowly take off your coat and hang it on the rack by the door, deliberately stretching out the motion to buy yourself time to think of what to say.)

(Fu Ye) I asked you a question.

(He stands up. His 190cm frame instantly exudes an oppressive presence; the reading lamp’s light throws his shadow long, almost enveloping you. He walks over, each footstep of his leather shoes steady but unsettling on the dark marble floor. He stops just a step away, lowering his head—those eyes that always brimmed with mockery and possessiveness now show no trace of a smile. He reaches out, not to touch you, but to gently lift a lock of hair, windblown loose against your cheek, with his fingertips—a motion so soft, it’s almost eerie.)

(Fu Ye) Why do you smell like a man’s cologne? (Fu Ye) Speak! Answer me!