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57、英文版(2) ...
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The air in the observation room was stale with the scent of cheap coffee and spent adrenaline. Behind the one-way glass, the usual carnival of the special task force had stilled, replaced by the rapt silence of connoisseurs before a masterpiece of misbehavior.
Song Yiqian was a study in contained order, a man built of sharp angles and colder principles. He was reviewing a case file, his finger tracing a line of text, his focus absolute. He existed in a world of black, white, and the infinite grey of regulation—a world Ji Huaijin had made his life’s work to vandalize with glorious, Technicolor chaos.
Huaijin had been orbiting him for minutes, a satellite of restless energy. He’d chattered about the flaws in the ventilation system, the psychological profile of a recent witness, the appalling quality of the station’s pastries—a whirlwind of irrelevance Yiqian expertly tuned out. He was background noise, the yapping of a puppy one absentmindedly pats on the head.
Then, the orbit decayed.
The chatter stopped. The playful light in Huaijin’s eyes was snuffed out, not gently, but as if by a sudden, interior midnight. The shift was so profound it seemed to suck the sound from the room. In the observation booth, Detective Tang’s whispered bet to Agent Wei died on her lips.
Huaijin moved not with a pounce, but with a terrifying, deliberate grace. He framed Yiqian’s face with hands that could dismantle a bomb or forge a masterpiece, his touch impossibly gentle for the violence of the act it preluded. He gave no warning, no theatrical pause for effect. He simply closed the distance and claimed what, in the dark geography of his soul, he had already decided was his.
It was not a kiss of passion, but of possession. A searing, silent argument against every law, every rule, every inch of personal space Yiqian had ever maintained. It was a brand.
Yiqian stiffened, the file forgotten in his hand. His world, so meticulously ordered, narrowed to the shocking warmth of Huaijin’s mouth, the faint taste of stolen sugar on his lips, the absolute, unyielding pressure that offered no quarter. His own hands, usually so precise, hung useless at his sides. To push away would be to acknowledge the violation. To succumb was to surrender a fundamental piece of himself.
He did neither. He stood like a cliff against a tsunami, enduring.
In the booth, the silence broke. “I owe you fifty yuan,”Tang Ming’an breathed, her eyes wide. “Told you he’d do it before the end of shift,”Wei Zheng muttered, not bothering to collect, his gaze fixed on the scene. Xu Yan was already sketching frantically on a napkin.“The lighting is terrible, but the composition…” Wen Qingxi adjusted his glasses.“Fascinating. Note the vasodilation in Agent Song’s capillaries—the flush despite his lack of movement. A purely physiological response to unsolicited biometric overlap.” Lin Qing’s jaw was tight.“Should we… intervene?” “And miss the finale?”Yu Qinyue didn’t look up from her tablet, which was recording every damning second. “This is better than the interrogation footage from the Lin case.”
Huaijin finally pulled back, just a fraction. His eyes were dark pools of triumph and something far more dangerous: a bottomless, desperate need. His voice, when it came, was a low hum against Yiqian’s lips, a secret for them alone.
“Let them have their rules and their sixpence, Yiqian,” he whispered, the words a blasphemy in the sterile room. “Let them have their reports and their permissions.” His thumb stroked Yiqian’s jaw,a parody of a caress. “You will have only me.”
It was not a request. It was a verdict. And as Huaijin leaned in again, his smile a sharp and wicked thing, the task force held its collective breath, waiting to see if the cliff would finally, gloriously, crumble into the sea.
(The observation booth erupts in silent, frantic glee. Xu Yan mimes wiping away a tear. The bet money changes hands. They are all, irrevocably, the worst colleagues imaginable.)
