The bass from the club below thumped through the floorboards like a second heartbeat, low and filthy, shaking the thin walls of the private room. Shen Mo kept his eyes half-lidded, the way he always did when he wanted the world to believe he was bored. The girl on his lap—Lili, she'd whispered—didn't believe it. Her fingers traced the hard line of his collarbone, down the ridge of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. She smelled like cherry lip gloss and something darker, something that clung to the back of his throat.
"You don't talk much," she murmured against his ear, breath warm, tongue flicking the lobe like punctuation. "That's fine. I like quiet men. They listen better."
Shen Mo didn't answer with words. He answered with the slow roll of his hips, the way his hands slid from her waist to the curve of her ass, lifting her just enough to feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her dress. Her breath caught, sharp and hungry. He could feel her pulse racing against his palm, a frantic little bird trapped under skin. She laughed, low and throaty, and arched into him.
The room was small, red lights casting long shadows over the cheap velvet couch. A mirror on the far wall reflected them back in fractured angles: his bare back, the dragon tattoo coiled over his shoulder blade; her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. The air tasted like sweat and perfume and the faint bitterness of cigarette smoke drifting in from the hallway.
He kissed her like he was trying to swallow the sound of the city. She tasted like plum wine and the sharp edge of nerves. Her nails scraped down his spine, and he shivered, not from cold but from the way her touch felt like permission. She rolled her hips again, slow and deliberate, and he groaned into her mouth. She swallowed the sound greedily.
"Condom," she whispered, breathless, reaching for the drawer beside the couch.
He watched her tear the foil with her teeth, watched her roll it down over him with practiced fingers that trembled just enough to make him wonder if she was acting or if this was real for her too. Then she was rising up, guiding him inside, sinking down inch by inch until her breath hitched and her head fell back. The red light painted her throat gold.
They moved together like they'd done this before, though they hadn't. She set the pace, slow and grinding, the kind of rhythm that built pressure behind his eyes. He let her lead, let her take what she wanted, because tonight he wasn't the quiet genius who wrote code in his sleep—tonight he was just a body, just heat and hunger and the need to forget the way his apartment echoed when he came home to silence.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his mouth to her breast. He obliged, tongue tracing the lace edge of her bra until she whimpered. She was close already, he could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her nails dug into his shoulders. He shifted his angle, just slightly, and she gasped his name—not Shen Mo, the name she didn't know, just "ah, fuck, right there"—and then she was coming, back bowed, mouth open in a soundless cry.
He followed her over the edge a moment later, hips stuttering, breath ragged. She collapsed against him, sweat-slicked and laughing, her forehead pressed to his collarbone. For a long moment they stayed like that, breathing each other in, the city a distant thrum beyond the window.
Then she pulled back, smoothing her dress down with shaking fingers. "You're good at that," she said, voice still husky. "You should come back. Ask for Lili."
He nodded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He didn't tell her he wouldn't. He never came back to the same place twice.
He left the brothel with the taste of cherry lip gloss still on his tongue and the weight of the night pressing against his shoulders. The air outside was colder than he expected, biting through his thin shirt. He pulled his jacket tighter, hands in pockets, and started walking.
The streets of Shanghai were alive even at two in the morning. Neon signs flickered like dying stars, casting pools of red and gold on the wet pavement. Food carts still steamed on the corners, the smell of fried noodles and cumin thick in the air. He passed a group of university students laughing too loud, a businessman stumbling drunk, a woman arguing with her boyfriend in rapid-fire Shanghainese. None of them looked at him twice. That was the way he liked it.
He took the long way home, cutting through the park where the trees whispered secrets to the wind. The path was lit by lanterns that cast long shadows, turning the familiar into something strange. He was almost to his building when he saw her.
She was standing under the awning of the 24-hour convenience store, arms crossed, tapping one high heel against the pavement. A cigarette burned between her fingers, the tip glowing like a firefly. She wore a pencil skirt and a blazer that looked expensive even in the dim light, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun. She looked like she belonged in a boardroom, not here in the middle of the night.
She looked up as he passed, eyes narrowing. "You live in the building next door, don't you?"
Shen Mo stopped, hands still in his pockets. He studied her face—sharp cheekbones, full mouth, the kind of eyes that missed nothing. He nodded once.
"I'm Lin Jia," she said, exhaling smoke toward the sky. "Ms. Lin to the kids I tutor. You're the quiet one on the top floor."
He tilted his head, acknowledging.
She smiled, not kindly but not unkindly either. "You're out late."
He shrugged. The motion made his jacket shift, and she caught a glimpse of the dragon tattoo on his shoulder. Her eyes flicked to it, then back to his face.
"Rough night?" she asked, voice dry.
He considered. Then he did something he rarely did—he spoke. "Could've been worse."
It was barely a whisper, gravel and smoke, but it made her blink. She took another drag of her cigarette, studying him like he was a puzzle she hadn't expected to find.
"You know," she said, "I've got a bottle of baijiu upstairs. Too much for one person. You look like you could use a drink."
He didn't drink with strangers. He didn't drink at all, usually. But something about the way she said it—not an invitation, more a challenge—made him nod.
Her apartment smelled like sandalwood and something floral. She kicked off her heels at the door, padded barefoot to the kitchen. He followed, noting the way her skirt hugged her hips, the way her blouse pulled tight when she reached for glasses. She poured two shots of the clear liquor without asking if he wanted it.
They drank in silence, the burn of the alcohol a sharp counterpoint to the lingering taste of Lili's lip gloss. She watched him over the rim of her glass, eyes calculating.
"You're younger than I thought," she said finally. "Up close, you look like a kid who wandered into the wrong bar."
He set his glass down. "I'm twenty-six."
"Old enough to know better, then." She refilled his glass. "What's your name?"
He hesitated. "Shen Mo."
"Silent," she translated, lips curving. "Fits."
They drank again. The baijiu hit harder than he expected, loosening something in his chest. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying him.
"You're not what I expected," she said. "I thought you were some shut-in who never left his computer. But you've got bruises on your knuckles and a hickey on your neck. Interesting combination."
He touched the mark self-consciously. She laughed, the sound rich and unexpected.
"Relax. I'm not judging. Just curious." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something expensive and understated. "Curiosity's dangerous, though. You might end up with more than you bargained for."
He met her eyes. "I'm used to that."
She studied him for a long moment. Then she reached up, fingers brushing the hickey, feather-light. "Whoever she was, she left a nice souvenir."
He caught her wrist, not hard, just enough to stop her. Her pulse jumped under his thumb. She didn't pull away.
"You're warm," she murmured. "Warmer than I thought."
The air between them shifted, charged. She stepped back first, reaching for the bottle. "Another?"
He shook his head. "I should go."
But he didn't move. Neither did she.
Outside, the city hummed, oblivious. Inside, the space between them pulsed with possibility.