Chapter 2: One Night to Remember

‌The man flicked cigarette ash, watching calmly as the spinning cocktail shaker slowed to stillness. The crowd exhaled a collective sigh—awed by his supernatural skill yet mourning the spectacle's end.

Ding Xiang stared at the drink he poured. Pale amber liquid swirled with a drop of crimson at its heart. As she lifted the glass, the red bloomed like blood in water, dyeing the entire cocktail scarlet.

"A proper drink mirrors its name," he said, voice gravelly. "Observe it untouched, and its beauty lasts. The moment you disturb it... poof. That's why it's called ‌The Virgin‌."

She sipped.

The bar froze.

A metallic tang flooded her tongue—blood and burnt spice. Her chest tightened as fleeting images arose: a girl's tear-streaked face, fractured innocence. Before she knew it, tears traced her cheeks.

Not a soul breathed.

"Your name," Ding Xiang demanded, voice trembling.

"Ye Chenghuan."

"Your profession?"

"Security guard."

Her porcelain composure cracked. Impossible.

"Time for my kiss, sweetheart." Ye grinned, swigged the remaining liquor, and seized her. One hand cradled her skull, the other hooked under her thigh as his lips crushed hers.

Ding Xiang's eyes widened. His tongue pushed the fiery cocktail into her mouth. She tasted tobacco and regret.

Men surged forward. "You're dead!"

Ye raised palms. "Deal's a deal!"

Ding Xiang wiped her mouth, chest heaving. "...His tab's cleared tonight."

The crowd buzzed as breaking news blared from the TV: CIA Director David Petraeus resigned over an affair.

Ye drowned another martini. The burn spread through him like molten mercury. He reached for the next glass—

A jade-white hand intercepted it.

Through drunken haze, he traced up fishnet-clad legs to a waist that defied gravity, breasts straining against black satin, and finally a face that stole his breath.

"May I sit?" Her voice could melt glaciers.

He nodded, headache throbbing. Shit. I'm too drunk for this.

—

Dawn crept into a shantytown shack. Sunlight fingers pried at a makeshift bed where Ye stirred, naked back glistening.

His hand brushed warm flesh.

A stranger lay beside him: raven hair fanned across the pillow, lips parted in sleep. The sheet clung to one breast, its twin crushed enticingly by her arm.

He froze.

Scratches raked his shoulders. A bloodstained rose bloomed on the sheets.

First time.

Ye lit a cigarette. Smoke coiled around the guilt gnawing his gut.

The woman turned, sheet slipping to reveal a crescent of hip. He tucked it back gently.

By the time he emerged from a cold shower, she'd vanished—only a whiff of jasmine lingering.

He peered through the rusted window. Her silhouette dissolved into the slum's maze, black dress fluttering like a widow's veil.

Another sigh. Another ghost added to his parade.

The shack stood in Longdu's dying industrial district, slated for demolition. Ye trudged past crumbling tenements toward his workplace: ‌Shangri-La Hotel‌, where polished glass towers devoured the horizon.