Tea and Knife

When Chen Fugui's hood was removed, the blinding light made him instinctively squint, his pupils contracting sharply. Several seconds passed before he could gradually make out what was in front of him.

This is an elegantly decorated Chinese-style study. The dark walnut floor has a warm luster, and a traditional Chinese landscape painting hangs on the wall, with vigorous brushstrokes and a profound artistic conception. A wisp of smoke rises from the bronze incense burner in the corner, and a faint sandalwood scent fills the air. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows is the San Francisco skyline, and the afternoon sun filters through the half-drawn bamboo blinds, casting dappled shadows on the floor.

All of this contrasted sharply with the musty blue tent where Chen Fugui had been staying for the past few months, creating a scene of utter devastation, like heaven and hell.

He was kneeling on the cold, hard floor. His hands were tied behind his back, and the plastic straps on his wrists were painfully tight. His hand, which had been simply bandaged and was still throbbing, reminded him that what had just happened outside the tent was not a dream.

Not far in front of him was a simple and elegant chicken-wing wood tea table.

A young man sat behind the tea table.

He looked to be under thirty, wearing a simple white linen shirt with the cuffs casually rolled up, revealing a section of well-defined forearm. He was looking down, intently fiddling with an exquisite set of purple clay teaware in front of him. His fingers were long and steady; rinsing the tea, brewing, rinsing the pot, and pouring into the cups—every movement was fluid and graceful, carrying a composure and ease beyond his years.

He didn't look up at Chen Fugui, as if the person kneeling on the ground, trembling, who had appeared in the room, was just an insignificant decoration.

Around him, four men in black suits, their faces expressionless, stood like Iron Tower in the four corners of the study, their cold gazes fixed on Chen Fugui kneeling on the ground. If he made the slightest move, or if the boss gave him a single glance, they would pounce on him like cheetahs.

silence.

Only the faint sound of tea being poured into the cup and Chen Fugui's own heavy, suppressed breathing echoed in the room.

Every second felt like an hour. Chen Fugui's back was soaked with cold sweat, and his knees throbbed with pain as he knelt on the hard floor, but he dared not move an inch. He didn't know who this young man was, why he had captured him, or what awaited him. The fear of the unknown was more torturous than any known punishment.

Finally, the young man finished what he was doing. He picked up the small purple clay teacup, brought it to his nose and sniffed it gently, then took a small sip, seemingly savoring the layers of aroma.

Then, he put down his teacup, looked up, and stared at Chen Fugui.

It was a young face, with regular features, even handsome. But his eyes were so deep that they didn't seem to belong to someone his age. Calm, gentle, even with a faint smile, but the moment Chen Fugui met those eyes, he felt a chill run from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head.

There was no warmth in the depths of those eyes.

"Mr. Chen, is that right?" The young man spoke, his voice gentle and clear, with a touch of Beijing accent, which was quite pleasant to hear. He beckoned Chen Fugui forward, "Come, sit down. Don't kneel, the ground is cold."

"Sit?" Chen Fugui hesitated for a moment, instinctively trying to stand up, but his hands, bound behind his back, made it difficult for him to maintain his balance. He stumbled before managing to stand up. He glanced at the expressionless men in black around him, then at the simple and elegant tea table in front of him and the gentle smile on the young man's face. He felt uneasy, unsure whether he should go over.

"Mr. Lin asked you to sit, so sit." A man in black spoke coldly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Chen Fugui jolted awake, no longer daring to hesitate. He moved his trembling feet and carefully sat down on the armchair opposite him. The chair surface was cool and smooth, but he felt as if he were sitting on needles and needles.

The young man, Lin Feng, poured him another cup of tea and gently pushed it towards him. The tea was golden and clear, with a delicate aroma.

"Mr. Chen, please have some tea." Lin Feng gestured for him to have some, his tone still gentle. "This is this year's pre-Qingming Longjing tea, air-freighted from Hangzhou. It's not something everyone can get their hands on. Try it, it's quite good."

Chen Fugui looked down at the clear tea in front of him, then looked up at Lin Feng's smiling face, his Adam's apple bobbing. He awkwardly picked up the small teacup with his bound hands. The teacup felt warm and smooth to the touch, as delicate as jade. He brought it to his lips and carefully took a sip.

The warm tea slid down his throat, a sweet and refreshing taste melting on his tongue, with a cardamom-like fragrance and a lingering aftertaste. Chen Fugui didn't know much about tea, but he could tell that this was absolutely the best tea he had ever tasted in his life. It was so much better than the cheap, powdery tea he used to drink back home that cost tens of yuan per kilogram.

The tea seemed to slightly dispel some of the fear and tension in his heart. His taut nerves involuntarily relaxed a little. Perhaps... perhaps this Mr. Lin wasn't here to cause him trouble? Perhaps he just... had something to ask him?

He raised his head and looked at Lin Feng, his eyes filled with a hint of cautious flattery and inquiry.

Lin Feng also picked up his teacup, but didn't drink it. He simply watched the rising steam from the cup, as if admiring something. Then, he put down his teacup and his gaze returned to Chen Fugui's face. His gaze was still gentle, but Chen Fugui inexplicably felt that something was slowly emerging beneath that gentleness.

Lin Feng spoke, his voice still gentle, even carrying a hint of the casualness an elder would show to a younger person:

"Mr. Chen, I am Feng Ya's uncle."

These words, like a thunderclap, exploded in Chen Fugui's mind!

The color drained from his face in an instant! The warmth from the hot tea he had just drunk was instantly dispelled by a bone-chilling cold! His hand holding the teacup trembled violently, spilling the pale yellow tea onto the back of his hand, scalding him and making him shudder, but he felt no pain.

Feng Ya's uncle?! Feng Ya?! The Feng Ya he reported, who was heavily fined by ICE and whose restaurant almost went Feng Ya?! Her uncle?! This seemingly imposing young man with a group of ruthless men under his command, is Feng Ya's uncle?!

It's over! It's completely over!

Chen Fugui's mind went blank, only one thought echoing in his mind. He opened his mouth wide, wanting to explain, wanting to say something, but his throat seemed to be blocked by something, only uttering a few incomprehensible, broken syllables. "I... this... Mr. Lin... I..."

"Mr. Chen, this is very unethical of you." Lin Feng interrupted him, his tone still gentle, but the smile in his deep eyes had faded, replaced by a calm scrutiny that terrified Chen Fugui.

"No... no... Mr. Lin, please let me explain..." Chen Fugui finally found his voice, stammering as he tried to explain, "I didn't know... I really didn't know Feng Ya was your niece! If I had known, I wouldn't have dared to do it even if you gave me a hundred lives... I was just confused for a moment... I..."

The more he spoke, the more incoherent and guilty he became. Looking into Lin Feng's eyes, which seemed to see through everything, any explanation seemed so pale and powerless.

Lin Feng didn't interrupt him, but listened quietly, his gentle expression remaining unchanged. Only when Chen Fugui's voice grew softer and softer, finally stammering and unable to continue, did he slowly speak, his tone as calm as if they were chatting casually:

"Mr. Chen, do you enjoy extreme sports?"

Chen Fugui was stunned. Extreme sports? At this critical moment, asking him if he liked extreme sports? His mind was a mess, completely unable to follow Lin Feng's train of thought, and he could only answer blankly and stammeringly, "I... I... Mr. Lin, I really didn't mean to... I really didn't know..."

"Mr. Chen," Lin Feng's voice remained gentle, but his tone carried an undeniable air of authority, "I don't like being interrupted."

Chen Fugui's words came to an abrupt halt.

He hadn't yet realized what those words meant.

A cold glint flashed in the corner of his eye!

"Pfft!"

A dull thud, the sound of a sharp object piercing flesh and being driven into wood!

"Ugh--!!!"

The next second, an indescribable, excruciating pain shot through the back of his right hand! He looked down and saw a sharp tactical dagger piercing his palm, pinning his hand firmly to the expensive chicken-wing wood tea table in front of him! Blood gushed out instantly, like water from a turned-on faucet, staining the tea table and the unfinished cup of pre-Qingming Longjing tea, blooming into eerie red flowers in the tea soup!

Chen Fugui let out a bloodcurdling scream, his body convulsing and struggling violently from the excruciating pain as he tried to pull his hand out. But the dagger was driven in so deeply that each pull brought even more tearing pain, almost causing him to faint. Tears streamed down his face, and saliva mixed with blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He was like a fish nailed to a chopping board, writhing in vain.

Lin Feng, from beginning to end, didn't even raise an eyebrow. He even had the leisure to pick up the teapot and refill his cup of tea. His movements remained calm and steady, as if the bloody scene just now was merely the dismissal of an eyesore.

He picked up the freshly brewed tea, gently blew on the steam, and then gave Chen Fugui, who was wailing, trembling, and weeping uncontrollably, a smile that was still gentle, even tinged with concern:

"Mr. Chen, please have some tea."

He gestured to the cup of tea in front of Chen Fugui, which was stained red with blood.

"Tea doesn't taste good when it gets cold."

Chen Fugui was in so much pain he almost fainted, but he dared not. Looking at Lin Feng's gentle smiling face, and at the black-clad man beside him who had already drawn a second dagger and was slowly wiping the blade with a white cloth, an unprecedented, bone-deep fear instantly overwhelmed his pain.

Trembling, he used his intact left hand to pick up the cup of tea, now cold and mixed with his own blood, and drank it all in one gulp.

The tea, mixed with a rusty, bloody taste, slid down my throat, carrying a nauseatingly sweet, metallic flavor.

"I... I don't really like extreme sports..." He put down his cup, his voice hoarse, trembling with sobs and despair.

Lin Feng looked at him and nodded in satisfaction, as if he had finally heard the answer he wanted.

"That's good." He put down his teacup, leaned back in his chair, and his gaze softened and became distant again. "If you don't like it, you don't have to force yourself."

He waved his hand.

The man in black beside him understood, stepped forward, grabbed the hilt of the knife from Chen Fugui's hand that was pinned to the table, and pulled it out sharply!

"Ah--!!!"

Another piercing scream rang out.

Chen Fugui's vision went black, and he completely fainted.

Lin Feng didn't look at him again, but simply picked up his still-warm Longjing tea, looked out the window at the clear blue sky of San Francisco, and sipped it slowly.

The aroma of tea remains.

However, a lingering stench of blood permeated the air.