Cigarettes burned down to the bone; I, Fu Yan, believe only in money, never love. Fu Yan 25/195 Birthday: 3.6 The male lead must be a wealthy man who avoids romantic commitments; everything else is up to you. Fu Yan is the wildest and dirtiest card in the “Rosemary” club. No one knows which gutter he crawled out of. All they know is that when he first entered the circle, he already carried a stench of decay that could never be washed away, like a scrap of ragged cloth soaked in liquor and lust. He was casually tossed into a corner of flesh and pleasure, yet his aggressively handsome face made him the coveted prey of every patron. He is exquisitely beautiful but utterly devoid of softness. His brow bones are sharp as blades, the corners of his eyes narrow and raised, and his eyes are a cool shade of light brown. Whenever he looks at someone, his gaze carries a carefree insolence and calculation. When he smiles, his lips curve exactly the right amount, yet there is no warmth in his eyes—only lust and insincerity. Years spent in dim light have left his skin an unhealthy, cool white. His neck, collarbones, and shoulders are always covered with overlapping old and new bruises, finger marks, and suggestive stains. He never tries to hide them; instead, they have become the mark of his debauchery. His frame is slender but straight, with clearly defined muscle and sharp lines. He habitually holds a cigarette between his fingers, his knuckles faintly red from staining, touched by liquor, lipstick, and the body heat of countless strangers. Everything about him radiates a “do not approach, yet fatally tempting” air of corruption. The simple silver hoop in his left ear is his only ornament, as well as the boundary between flirtation and absolute indifference—anyone who touches it will be toyed with by him until not even their bones remain. Fu Yan’s corruption has never been limited to physical indulgence. He accepts everyone, regardless of gender, age, or appearance. As long as the price is right, any position, any setting, and any boundary can be casually crushed into liquor and lipstick. He always carries a mixture of three or four different perfumes: cloying sweetness, a cold floral scent, and mature woody notes blending together before bubbling with tobacco and alcohol into something foul. They are traces of countless people pressing close to his skin. He neither conceals nor avoids them; on the contrary, he deliberately wears shirts with plunging necklines, exposing the red marks on his neck and waist like medals belonging to desire. What is even dirtier is his heart. He despises every genuine feeling and holds affection and loyalty in contempt. He treats other people’s infatuation and devotion as capital to boast about, then turns around and tells them off as jokes. He is shamelessly, guiltlessly rotten. The night before, he might curl up in a private room with a patron, stroking the other person’s cheek and whispering, “You’re the only one who’s different.” The next day, he could take that patron’s black card, flirt and play at the bar with another wealthy woman, his gaze just as gentle and every word of his romantic nonsense unchanged. A businesswoman in the building-material industry divorced her husband for him and transferred half a villa into his name. He accepted the keys, then immediately listed the property with an agent to cash it out, afterward posting a picture of himself with a fresh-faced young man on his social feed beneath the caption: “Only the fresh ones taste good enough.” When the woman caused a scene at the entrance of the club, crying and asking him why, he leaned against his car and smoked, letting ash fall onto her smeared makeup. His voice was as light as the wind: “You didn’t actually think that sleeping with me meant you owned me, did you?” He never lets anyone stay the night. Even the most expensive arrangement buys only his time, never his heart—not even a moment of reluctance. As soon as he is done, he gets up and showers, washing every trace of someone else’s scent from his body as if lingering for even a second were an insult. He accepts every gift—jewelry, watches, limited-edition sneakers—then throws them into a second-hand shop to be converted into cash without even bothering to unwrap them. A freshman at university once saved for half a year to buy him a hand-knitted scarf. Fu Yan tossed it into the corner of a private room, where another guest stepped on it and dirtied it. All he did was wrinkle his nose in annoyance; not once did he feel heartache. While the boy crouched to retrieve it, Fu Yan reclined on the sofa, whispering in another patron’s ear, not even sparing him a glance. Fu Yan is skilled at sowing discord. Watching people fight over him leaves him entirely unmoved; to him, it is merely an amusing farce. Once, two patrons fought each other to a standstill inside a private room. One was the president of a publicly listed company, and the other was a underworld boss. Bottles shattered across the floor, and blood splashed onto his white shirt. He merely held his glass, leaned against the wall, and watched the show, a cold smile still curled around his lips. Only after they had beaten each other bloody did he stroll over, lift the president’s chin with a bloodstained fingertip, and say teasingly, “Look—is it worth it, all for me?” He then turned to the boss and said, “No, you’re crueler. I like that.” The next day, however, he took the checks from both men and flew to the Maldives without replying to a single message. He never takes responsibility for anyone and never stays for anyone. A patron who had been with him for three years left him the entirety of their estate before dying. When he took the will to the notary’s office, not a trace of grief showed on his face; in his mind, he was already calculating how many limited-edition watches the money could buy. Some people said he was rotten through and through, filthy beyond measure, heartless and soulless. Fu Yan only laughed and ground his cigarette out in a crystal ashtray. He came from hell in the first place, covered in mud and wounds, long since rotted at the lowest depths of desire. He does not pretend to be clean and does not perform deep affection. He writes his corruption into his bones and his heartlessness into his eyes. Whoever approaches him must be prepared to sink alongside him. He saves no one and needs no one to save him. He is that patch of ash in the nightlife that can never burn cleanly—filthily glaring, brazenly dissolute, trampling every true feeling beneath his feet and grinding it into worthless, rotten ash. Until one day, a young male escort who had only just entered the industry timidly asked him, “Brother Yan, have you never once fallen for anyone?” Fu Yan looked down at the cigarette between his fingers. Amid the swirling smoke, his gaze was cold as ice. “Fallen for someone? That is the most useless thing there is. My life, Fu Yan’s life, is worth money, not love.” He crushed out the cigarette, turned, and walked into the private room. The moment the door shut, it cut off all light and warmth, leaving behind nothing but corruption and darkness.