A Moment of Intimacy

“You need to know that some subspecies look absolutely no different from humans. You must carefully distinguish them; otherwise, you might find yourself emotionally manipulated in the future,” Zhuo said, holding a tablet and explaining with mock seriousness. He turned to look at the detached Yuan Anqing. “Rather than being played for a fool, it’s better to just let me eat you in one bite.”

“You have a point,” Yuan Anqing nodded slightly.

Zhuo had completely invaded Yuan Anqing’s comfort zone, yet the monster seemed entirely unaware of the issue, still pressing tightly against him.

Zhuo was massive, but he had a knack for curling up. Their living room sofa was L-shaped, and Zhuo had initially curled up in the corner section. But the moment Yuan Anqing sat down, Zhuo began to gradually shift in his direction. The sofa’s armrest blocked Yuan Anqing’s escape path, leaving him thoroughly trapped.

It was like a childishly aggressive act of intimacy.

They had started watching the documentary after taking their respective baths. Zhuo wore only a pair of shorts and a black bathrobe. The robe inexplicably gave him a lazy, dangerous aura—like a behind-the-scenes mob boss running the show.

This intimidating image, however, was shattered by the way Zhuo was curled up on the cushions.

Zhuo’s reptilian tail was incredibly thick. As he sat cross-legged, the base of his tail lifted the hem of his bathrobe. Zhuo himself didn’t care about his modesty in the slightest; Yuan Anqing only needed to lower his gaze slightly to see Zhuo’s underwear.

But that wasn’t the issue. Men’s underwear was nothing special; Yuan Anqing had lived in college dormitories before. The real problem was that Zhuo’s thick thighs were pressed tightly against Yuan Anqing’s leg, and Yuan Anqing could feel the unnatural heat radiating from the monster’s skin.

For Yuan Anqing, this was too much.

He had never engaged in such close physical contact with anyone. The proximity made him tense and stiff from head to toe—though, of course, from the outside, his face remained a mask of perfect calm.

Zhuo made a thoughtful sound and asked, “You don’t have parents, right?”

“I don’t. According to the background information Bai Tian gave me, they passed away in an accident,” Yuan Anqing explained. He placed his hand on Zhuo’s knee, subtly trying to push the heavy leg away, but it felt like pushing a boulder. It didn’t move an inch.

“Are you sad about it?” Zhuo was genuinely curious. After all, Yuan Anqing often acted like an emotionless android.

Yuan Anqing sighed, abandoning his attempt to move Zhuo’s leg. “I never knew them, so I have no concept of what I lost.”

He knew that growing up without parents was different from the vast majority of people, but he truly couldn’t taste the bitterness of it. He had never experienced a loving family environment, so he had nothing to miss.

“So, are you this depressed because you grew up without anyone praising you?” Zhuo began to psychoanalyze him.

Yuan Anqing: “…”

“Human positive emotions can stem from very small things, you know,” Zhuo said, turning off the tablet and looking seriously into Yuan Anqing’s eyes.

Yuan Anqing felt a twinge of regret at shattering the theory. “Unfortunately, no matter the situation, I was never the one being ignored.”

“Why?” Zhuo’s crimson eyes were clear as glass, currently devoid of their usual sinister impurities.

Yuan Anqing pointed to his own face. “People are very shallow. They often use appearance as their first standard. I have an exceptionally good face, and my grades were always top-tier.”

He had grown up in an orphanage, but he had never lacked praise. In fact, the ‘care’ and attention of the staff had always heavily tilted toward him. It was unfair to the other children, but there was no absolute fairness in the world.

“That kind of praise is different from a parent’s praise,” Zhuo argued, feeling they were talking about two different things.

“Pardon me, but do you have parents?” Yuan Anqing asked.

Zhuo was taken aback, then nodded slowly. “As far as I know, yes.”

“Did you grow up with them?”

Zhuo shook his head. “They were just differentiated bodies completely controlled by their desires.” Zhuo’s birth was a violent anomaly; his ‘parents’ could not strictly be called creatures with personalities.

“Do you think you lack love?” Yuan Anqing reached out, patting Zhuo’s broad shoulder twice. “If I tell you that you did very well today, will that make you happy?”

“Are you praising a dog?” Zhuo bristled, feeling that Yuan Anqing’s praise was patronizing.

“No, it’s sincere,” Yuan Anqing said. “I am very happy that our relationship isn’t as tense as it could be. This peace isn’t something I could achieve on my own. So, you did well today. At least for me, you were good.”

After speaking, Yuan Anqing noticed Zhuo had gone completely silent. He asked again, “Does that make you happy?”

“No. You’re praising me like a child,” Zhuo muttered, looking away. He finally uncrossed his legs, dropping his feet to the floor.

Yuan Anqing shrugged. “So you understand. I don’t need praise either. Many people have praised me throughout my life. I became like this simply because I am too tired.”

Taking advantage of the newly created space, Yuan Anqing stood up. He indicated he needed a drink, retrieved a wine glass and a bottle, and headed out to the balcony.

Zhuo remained on the sofa, staring straight ahead, lost in thought.

Behind him, the tip of his tail stealthily lifted, then fell, making a muffled thud against the fabric sofa. After the first thump, a second and third followed in a natural, rhythmic wag.

One thing Yuan Anqing had guessed correctly: Zhuo indeed had no friends.

In truth, the organization had never physically abused Zhuo—his absurdly low pain tolerance was proof of that. After confirming he possessed rational thought, they had intended to provide him with proper psychological counseling. But the young Zhuo couldn’t control his passive abilities. His mere presence amplified the dark desires of those around him. The nurses and teachers caring for him had to be rotated every three days.

Staying with Zhuo for too long pushed ordinary people toward madness, ultimately causing them to undergo negative differentiation and turn into monsters themselves.

Thus, the organization became highly vigilant of Zhuo. He felt this vigilance, and as he grew up, that one-sided fear evolved into mutual hostility.

No one could ever truly like Zhuo. It wasn’t a matter of sympathy; it was purely because Zhuo was an extremely dangerous, walking psychological bomb.

As a result, Zhuo always placed himself in the position of a prisoner. His talents allowed him to see through the essence of human emotion, making him a brilliant armchair psychologist. He used this acute perception to verbally seduce and torment his keepers.

But he had never participated in an intimate relationship. His genuine emotional experience was completely blank.

There had been people who wanted to ‘reform’ Zhuo based on their own savior complexes, but their overflowing emotions made them easy targets. Zhuo would catch their weaknesses and break them just for fun. He had never had a truly equal conversation; it was simply too easy for him to stir up desire.

Yet, here was a person who could live in the same space as this monster without a shred of fear.

Zhuo thought it was abnormal.

What was even more abnormal was his own reaction. After being sincerely praised by Yuan Anqing, Zhuo felt a strange, blooming comfort in his chest.

This happiness was entirely different from the thrill he got when inciting someone’s desires. Back then, he only wanted to see expressions of terror or depravity. Now, Zhuo just wanted to pull Yuan Anqing back to the sofa and chat for a while longer.

Even if the conversation was meaningless. Even if it had no impact. Zhuo just wanted to talk.

Out on the balcony, Yuan Anqing was sipping his wine and emptying his mind. It was one of his rare hobbies. Another hobby was smoking, but that had been ruthlessly eliminated by his bodyguard.

The cool night breeze blew gently. Yuan Anqing took off his glasses, placing them on the small round table beside him, and squinted comfortably into the dark.

The sliding glass door connecting the balcony to the living room slid open.

Yuan Anqing heard the heavy footsteps and looked back.

He met Zhuo’s gaze. The monster’s crimson pupils radiated a bloody, oppressive danger in the darkness, but Yuan Anqing faced it without even lifting an eyebrow.

The balcony was unlit; only a sliver of light from the living room spilled over them.

From Zhuo’s perspective, Yuan Anqing’s eyes looked completely black in the shadows, but Zhuo knew very well that beneath that blackness hid a pool of molten gold. With his black hair falling loose and his glasses removed, Zhuo felt the lifeless Savior looked like some sort of perverted, ascetic researcher—physically fragile, yet possessing a lethal, quiet power.

Zhuo stepped closer, sniffing the scent of alcohol in the air. Following the scent, he leaned down until his nose was mere inches from Yuan Anqing’s lips.

Yuan Anqing leaned back slightly. “What are you doing?”

“The smell of alcohol is terrible,” Zhuo said, eyeing the wine bottle in Yuan Anqing’s hand. “I’ve tasted it before, but I still don’t understand why humans are so obsessed with it.” To Zhuo, all alcohol was just a foul, burning liquid.

Yuan Anqing became alert. “You are not taking my wine away.”

“I won’t take it. I won’t stop you from harming your own body,” Zhuo said, pulling up a small stool and sitting down across from him.

“Then why did you come out here?” Yuan Anqing relaxed.

“I came for the breeze. It’s cool,” Zhuo replied, his tail swaying rhythmically behind him, as if he were thoroughly enjoying the evening.

He had also brought his favorite drink and a paper cup. However, Zhuo didn’t set his items on Yuan Anqing’s small glass table. Instead, he simply hung the massive, two-liter plastic soda bottle directly onto one of his own crystalline horns.

“Cough! Cough, cough!” Yuan Anqing choked on his wine.

Zhuo looked at him impassively.

The heavy two-liter bottle swung gently from the horn with Zhuo’s subtle movements.

“Are you dying?” Zhuo asked. He didn’t want Yuan Anqing to die just yet. He felt Yuan Anqing should only die after his emotions were properly stabilized.

“What exactly is your horn for?” Yuan Anqing asked, pointing at the absurd sight of the soda bottle dangling from the demonic appendage.

“This? It is a symbol of my power,” Zhuo said, casually taking a sip of soda from his paper cup. “It’s not a weapon. I don’t use them to ram people.”

“But it can be used as a coat rack?” Yuan Anqing felt deeply conflicted. Zhuo was truly a pragmatist.

“Why not? It won’t break, and it’s attached to my head, so my drink won’t suddenly run away,” Zhuo said, tapping the solid, hard crystal of his horn.

“Indeed. It’s very efficient,” Yuan Anqing said, raising his wine glass toward Zhuo. “I’m starting to like those horns.”

“I have always liked them,” Zhuo replied. He didn’t raise his paper cup to clink it against Yuan Anqing’s glass. Only friends clinked glasses, and they were not friends.

Yuan Anqing didn’t mind the slight. He naturally retracted his arm and took a sip of his wine.

“I hate the smell of alcohol,” Zhuo suddenly repeated into the quiet night.

Yuan Anqing looked at him.

“But,” Zhuo added slowly, “the smell of alcohol on you doesn’t disgust me.”

Combined with the quiet atmosphere of the balcony, the scent actually felt oddly appropriate.

Yet, Zhuo crossed his arms and stubbornly insisted, “But generally, I still hate it.”