Chapter 82 - Inferno (Part II)
It was Friday, the so-called "Happy Friday" at the local club. Students, their minds clouded by a week’s worth of pent-up hormones and academic restraint, swarmed into the only establishment within a ten-kilometer radius that boasted the trifecta of alcohol, flashing lights, and disco rhythms. Youth is a forgiving mistress; even though the club’s lighting and sound equipment were relics of a bygone era and the wooden floorboards were warped and uneven, the patrons didn't care. They surrendered themselves to the music, dancing with a frantic energy until they were drenched in sweat.
Behind the bar, the glasses piled up faster than they could be cleared. Chen Zhizhong had originally been tucked away in the back, submerged in the relative anonymity of dishwashing, but a barked order from the owner dragged him out. He was handed a new set of duties: hauling crates of liquor and scrubbing the toilets.
Every fiber of his being recoiled at the prospect. The club was a magnet for the student population. If he ran into an acquaintance, being mocked was the least of his worries; if word reached the university that he was working under the table, his student visa would be revoked faster than a spilled drink could be wiped away. He attempted to protest, but the manager—a man of gargantuan proportions, standing nearly two meters tall and weighing a solid hundred kilograms—had arms thicker than Chen’s thighs. Before Chen could get two sentences out, the man seized him by the collar and hauled him out of the kitchen like a sack of grain.
In the corridor, the music was slightly muffled, though the manager’s string of F-word-laden curses still vibrated through the iron door. Chen stood by the wall, his hand hovering indecisively over the door handle. He lingered there for five minutes, paralyzed by a mixture of resentment and fear, before finally resigning himself to his fate. He gripped his broom and mop, hugging the shadows of the wall as he slunk toward the restrooms.
*The lights are dim,* he consoled himself, a mantra for the desperate. *Even if I run into someone head-on, they won’t be able to tell who I am.*
Driven by a guilty conscience, he kept his head down, his eyes glued to the floor. He hadn't walked more than a few paces when he collided squarely with someone coming from the opposite direction.
The first sensation was the scent—a heady, expensive perfume—followed by a startling softness, and finally, a sharp jolt of pain. Chen Zhizhong stumbled back two steps, clutching his throbbing chin. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words died in his throat.
His gaze first landed on a pair of vibrant red, studded stiletto sandals. The toes were pointed and the heels were needle-thin; they looked less like footwear and more like lethal weapons. His eyes traveled upward, skimming over a tight black miniskirt and a generous expanse of pale, supple skin at the neckline. He found he could not look away.
Though her long, straight hair had been transformed into cascading waves, and her face was masked by "flame-red" lipstick, heavy eyeliner, and shimmering eyeshadow, the contours of her features were unmistakable. The "sexy beauty" currently rubbing her forehead and hissing in pain was, with eighty percent certainty, Xiao Heling.
The woman seemed to sense something was amiss. She lifted her brow to glance at him, and in that instant, she turned to stone. Only her dark pupils moved, darting back and forth like beads of black mercury. The panic in her eyes was palpable.
With that look, the eighty percent certainty jumped to ninety-nine.
"Iris!"
A boy’s call drifted toward them through the crowd. He was a handsome white youth who looked as if he had been pulled straight from a mass-production line of Western ideals: golden hair, piercing blue eyes, and features so sharp they could have been chiseled. His pectoral and bicep muscles were so prominent they threatened to burst the seams of his button-down shirt. The boy cut through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, reaching the relatively quiet alcove where the two stood. A single sweep of his blue eyes was enough for him to assess the situation—or so he thought.
"Watch where you're going!" the boy snapped. He pulled Xiao Heling protectively into his arms, his movements fluid and imperious. It was the practiced arrogance of someone born into wealth, someone who had spent a lifetime rehearsing this exact brand of condescension.
As a person of color and a mere bar lackey, Chen Zhizhong was theoretically supposed to offer a submissive apology and clear the way. However, as the teaching assistant for Xiao Heling’s major course, his professional pride took the high ground. He stood his ground, composed and expectant, waiting for Xiao Heling to offer an explanation. How was it that she had been too "insomniac" and "ill" to attend a simple tutorial quiz yesterday, yet today she was perched atop "sky-high" heels, lingering in a nightclub at midnight to work up a sweat?
But the boy’s arrival didn't just restore Xiao Heling’s composure; it gave her back her audacity. Instead of apologizing or explaining, she leaned in and whispered something into the boy’s ear with a playful smile. The two of them turned away, laughing as they headed back toward the dance floor. The boy’s hand rested possessively on her waist; against the black of her skirt, the color of his skin felt particularly jarring to Chen’s eyes.
Before disappearing into the throng, Xiao Heling cast one last look back at him. Her eye makeup was exquisite, but her gaze was utterly devoid of emotion. It was a look of casual, careless indifference, as if Chen Zhizhong were nothing more than a physical extension of the wooden broom handle he held.
Chen stood frozen, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the broom. He narrowed his eyes dangerously.
*Iris.* That was Xiao Heling’s English name.
There was absolutely no mistake.
*I hope your alcohol tolerance is high,* Chen thought grimly as he pushed open the restroom door, broom in hand. *Because when you sober up tomorrow, you’re going to remember exactly what kind of stupid mistake you made tonight.*
He was not about to let this matter rest.
***
**GLOSSARY OF NEW TERMS**
