A man in a sky-blue bathrobe lounged on the sofa, his rolled-up sleeves revealing a slender wrist. He held a cigarette to his mouth, exhaling a puff of gray-white smoke while leaning casually closer to the telephone and speaking softly. His English was gentle and clear and when he spoke quickly, it was like cotton rolling through a pile of sugar, each sound delicately brushing against the listener’s heart, leaving a tingly sensation and a sweet aftertaste.

The housemaid brought him tea and quickly hurried into the bathroom. The man had just taken a shower and changed out of his muddy clothes, leaving the entire bathtub filled with muddy water. When he first returned home, the housemaid nearly wouldn’t let him in, unable to recognize that the disheveled person was her master. As she picked up the muddy clothes to soak them, something fell out of its pocket and rolled on the floor a few times.

The housemaid rinsed the item with water and then noticed it was a makeup box, pink in color with a green lotus lid, featuring a portrait of a woman.

She was aware that her master was a playboy, even though she had never seen any women visit the house. However, the frequent phone calls and the different flowers tucked into his suit collar whenever he came home hinted at his lifestyle. There were also  necklaces, wooden combs, and fragrant handkerchiefs, with each item carried its own distinct scent.

Her master always tossed things aside as soon as he got home or just passed them on to her. Of course, she didn’t want them, who knew if they were clean?  He carelessly mingled with women, possibly encountering both proper and improper ones.

Naturally, this was all speculation on the housemaid’s part, as there was one time when he brought home a pair of women’s black stockings.

The stockings were thin and had a slight sheen. They were embroidered along the edge with a circle of lace and had small connecting buttons. The last person she served was a certain master who kept a mistress outsides who wasn’t from a respectable background. Whenever that master came to visit, she would always see the mistress dressed up, wearing a cheongsam that slashed up to the thigh, slowly applying the stockings up her legs, her red toenails peeking out, and the lace buttons snug against her thighs, creating a graceful and alluring appearance.

The housemaid took the stockings of unknown origin and casually stuffed them into the large wardrobe. Inside, it was filled with various women’s items. After preparing the red wine and snacks, she glanced at the weather outside. It was getting late, and she knew it was time for her to head back.

Meanwhile, her master spoke rapidly in the living room. The highs and lows of his voice, even his impolite shouts of anger, sounded pleasant to the ear.

Her master was quite affluent, of mixed German and Chinese descent, with gray-blue eyes and black curly hair. When he smiled, it was extremely sweet, and he could effortlessly recite foreign romantic verses, charming those who listened. The housemaid walked through the hall and placed the red wine on the coffee table, only to see that he had already hung up  the phone. He sat on the sofa with his face in his hands, his slender neck shimmering softly in the light. His genes blessed him with smooth, fair skin, and beneath the taut skin on the back of his neck, one could almost see delicate bones.

Her master mumbled something in German and then suddenly exclaimed, “A-ma, I’m done for! I’m completely finished.” 

The housemaid gathered the leftover plates from the table, the silver knives and forks clinking against the ornate porcelain dishes. Her master slumped into the sofa, then turned onto his side, causing the collar of his shirt to slip down his arm, revealing a patch of white skin. His rounded shoulder was marked with scratches made by a woman’s nails.

He gazed at the phone with a passionate and melancholic expression, his hand tugging at the tassels of the blanket beneath him. The housemaid heard him speak in a melodious voice, almost like reciting poetry: “I’ve slept with Major General Yong’s woman.” 

The housemaid didn’t understand much. She lowered her head, unsure of how to respond. The man lifted his eyelids, glanced at her, and sighed softly, “General Yong’s is the son of Governor Yong.”

Only then did the housemaid understand that her master had gotten involved with someone significant, someone truly formidable.

Governor Yong is the highest official in this area. The housemaid knows a bit about him from reading the newspapers and listening to gossip. Her master is used to living a debauched life and has caused trouble before. However, it seems that each time, he manages to turn danger into safety. The tassels of the blanket have been pulled off by the desperate master countless times, and the housemaid has grown accustomed to it.

As the housemaid was about to leave, her master stood up, kissed her on the cheek and bid her farewell. It seemed that he had a natural charm with all women, and the housemaid often felt a tender concern for the younger men before her.

After sending the housemaid away, the man held a glass of red wine and played some music. He was barefoot, lightly dancing on the soft carpet in the room. His name was Zhou Jun, and his English name was Stinson Zhou. He also had a German name, which he rarely used. He didn’t like being called by his full name; his close female companions called him Jun, Stinson, or Mr. Zhou.

Zhou Jun took a sip of red wine and popped a snack into his mouth, the sweet taste feels like the kiss of a woman. 

When he arrived at the banquet, Shirley Chen hadn’t appeared in the ballroom yet. Zhou Jun brought a gift to attend a party hosted by the embassy’s political advisor, Lin Sheng. After chatting with Lin Sheng about current events, he found himself unable to stay still and looked around aimlessly. Noticing a woman he found appealing at the banquet, he raised his glass to signal her.

He joined the others on the dance floor and danced a few songs, exchanging playful jokes. With a teasing smile, Zhou Jun held the soft hand in his palm, playfully kneading her fingers. Just as he was about to speak, he inadvertently lifted his gaze and was momentarily stunned by what he saw.

The Italian chandelier was embellished with many pieces of crystal, casting a dreamlike light as it rotated. On the rose-patterned carpet stood a woman in a red robe, draped in a white lace shawl. Her brows and eyes were like waves, and just a slight glance in Zhou Jun’s direction sent his heart racing. The woman turned and walked away, and of course, Zhou Jun went after her.

His feet felt light as if he were drunk. He circled around the long table and casually picked a rose to tuck into his pocket. The balcony was breezy, the noise of the party was muffled by the half-closed door. The moonlight was as white as a layer of gauze, covering the woman beneath it. She held a slender ladies’ cigarette and seemed to anticipate Zhou Jun’s pursuit as she turned to look back.

Zhou Jun stepped forward and lit the cigarette for her. Deep red nails matched deep red lips; this woman loved red, yet her skin was as pale as a hibiscus, exuding a faint, delicate fragrance. That evening, he had the chance to ask her to dance and learned her name was Shirley Chen.

Shirley Chen’s mood remained somewhat low, carrying a kind of melancholy that didn’t seem fitting for a woman of her rare beauty. Sensitive and perceptive, Zhou Jun guessed that some man might had broken her heart—something that truly shouldn’t have happened. Her slender waist swayed in his hands as they danced, and as they drew close, Zhou Jun gently took Shirley Chen’s earring between his lips and removed it.

It was a small, rounded jade earring in a vibrant green, discreetly falling into Zhou Jun’s hand. He held a half-open rose, which he tucked beside the woman’s temple. Zhou Jun said, ‘Don’t be sad, this flower suits you perfectly.’

That night, Shirley Chen, who had lost one of her earrings, came to find him to get it back. Zhou Jun drove the intoxicated beauty home. Being as considerate as he was, he half-held, half-supported her and laid her gently on the soft silk bed. It was a wonderful night, with soft warmth and fragrant skin in his arms, like flowers blooming slowly after being touched by dew.

The sweet dream didn’t last until dawn. He was awakened by Shirley Chen, and instead of receiving a good morning kiss, he found himself with his clothes stuffed into his arms. She pushed him to the window, where he turned and stepped onto the ledge, hiding behind the French white window. The curtains were drawn, revealing a faint gap.

Zhou Jun hid outside, peering in through the small gap. Inside, there was a man in military uniform, holding a hat with white gloves. A cold lion-shaped brooch pinned to his right chest. Although his face was not clearly visible, he had a tall and robust figure. The man sat down, lazily propping up his long legs, with tiny chains still clasped on his military boots, which were polished to a shine.

Shirley’s voice came through, calling the man “A-Jin.” Zhou Jun watched as the delicate waist he had held all night trembled and moved shyly toward the man. Zhou Jun closed his eyes, feeling a slight discomfort in his heart.

In the next moment, chaos erupted as a bullet pierced through the curtain and glass, shattering the entire window. As the woman’s screams filled the air, Zhou Jun jumped from the second floor and rolled into a puddle of mud. He had always been fortunate, and in this secluded villa, surrounded by soft, rain-soaked grass, he landed unscathed, except for being covered in mud.

The bullet grazed his cheek, narrowly missing him, and in the aftermath, his heart raced violently from the near miss. He rose from the ground and looked up to see the window flung open, the wind billowing the curtains around the man inside.

What kind of eyes were those? They were undeniably deep and striking, yet they left Zhou Jun frozen in place, unable to look away. He found himself locked in a gaze with the man for what felt like an eternity.

It wasn’t until Shirley Chen rushed to the window, her sobbing voice shaking Zhou Jun back to reality, that he hurriedly grabbed his clothes and ran outside. As he made his way through the woods, he felt an inexplicable urge to look back, stealing one last glance at the man.

He recognized the man.

Yong Jin.