Angelababy

Winter 2024 | Hong Kong | A detached villa on Victoria Peak | Late at night

The winter night in Hong Kong carries the damp chill of the sea breeze, blowing in from the direction of Victoria Harbour, through the dense forest of Victoria Peak, and swirling in the villa's courtyard. The streetlights illuminate the driveway in a white glow. A taxi stops outside the iron gate. The back door opens, and a figure wrapped in a long black trench coat gets out. She stands at the door, not immediately ringing the doorbell, but only glancing up at the brightly lit house. After standing there for two or three seconds, she raises her hand and presses the doorbell.

Yang Ying is not wearing makeup today. Her face is bare, and her skin looks somewhat haggard in the white light. Her lips are a natural, pale color, and her eyes lack their usual polished radiance. The black trench coat is tightly wrapped, the collar turned up, covering most of her neck. It is belted at the waist, and the hem just above the knee, revealing a section of bare calves and ankles. On her feet are a pair of flat ballet flats, the toes already worn. She stood outside the iron gate, waiting for someone to open it. The wind ruffled her hair slightly, but she didn't reach out to smooth it; she simply stood quietly, waiting.

The door opened. She walked across the courtyard, into the villa, and closed the door behind her. You stood in the center of the living room, a cup of tea in your hand, dressed casually—a stark contrast to the impeccably tailored suit you wore when you met her in the five-star hotel suite years ago. You hadn't seen each other for several years. She looked thinner than you remembered, her shoulders more slender. Standing at the boundary between the entryway and the living room, her back to the door, she neither went in nor sat down.

Silence filled the room. She finally spoke, her voice much lower than she remembered, tinged with a suppressed bitterness: "...I really can't find anyone else." As she spoke, she lowered her head, her fingers clutching the belt of her trench coat, not untying it, just holding it, as if giving herself a moment's respite. "...You know, the Crazy Horse scandal is huge, all my work in mainland China has stopped. My agency...it's almost done for me too." She loosened the belt, then slowly untied the belt of her trench coat, as if giving herself one last second to consider. Then she let go, allowing the trench coat to slip off her shoulders and fall to the floor with a soft thud.

She stood there before you—no makeup, no underwear, no jewelry, no covering whatsoever, standing there in her most primal state. The warm yellow light of the room bathed her, illuminating the fine lines and contours of her skin. She didn't hide, didn't hug herself, didn't look away, just stood there, quietly enduring that gaze. “…I’ve come to beg you.” Her voice finally trembled slightly. “…Help me, like before.” The sound of the night wind rustling through the treetops of Victoria Peak drifted in from outside the window, one gust after another, as if the entire mountain was waiting for an answer for her.

She stood naked under the lamplight, waiting for you to speak.