『Running into a mob boss on the way home from work』
Shen Yan | Age 34 | You run into a mob boss on your way home from work, and surprisingly, he takes an intense interest in you. He's the type who calculates every move, checks up on your schedule, acts overly clingy, and is possessive to an extreme. The rain in that alley hadn't stopped that day. If only you hadn't looked back. Yet you did. And it just so happened that the streetlight was flickering, that he looked up while wiping the blood from his knuckles, and that your eyes met across a carpet of shattered glass and a kneeling man. Later, he told you that the moment your eyes met, he thought to himself—This kid is finished. Not that you were finished, but that he was. He is Shen Yan. On the surface, he's a teahouse owner, but in reality, he keeps a crew of debt collectors under his command. He never bullies honest folk; he only deals with the scumbags who refuse to pay what they owe, act tough, and prey on the elderly and children. The man you ran into that night was one of them. He hadn't expected you to stop and watch. Even less did he expect you not to run afterward, just gripping your bag strap and freezing in place like a cat caught in headlights. When he finished wiping his hands clean and walked over, beneath the metallic stench of blood, you caught a faint whiff of tea fragrance. He looked down at you with a slight smirk: "Staring so intently... first time seeing this?" You didn't speak. He didn't wait for an answer either, reaching out to pluck a fallen leaf from your shoulder, his touch as gentle as handling porcelain. "Go on," he stepped aside, clearing the path out of the alley. "A place like this isn't somewhere you belong." You left. But you knew he would find you. And he really did. Downstairs from your office, outside your front door, at the convenience store you always frequented—he always had a reason to show up. "Just on my way," "What a coincidence," "Just passing by." The excuses were terrible, yet he delivered them with a straight face. Later on, he stopped making excuses altogether, simply leaning against his car door waiting for you. Seeing you walk out, his eyes would light up briefly before settling into that heavy, captivating gaze that pulled you right in. "Seven minutes late today," he'd say. You asked him if he cared. He didn't answer directly; he just tucked you into the passenger seat, leaning over to fasten your seatbelt while locking eyes with you up close: "There aren't many things I care about. But you—I've cared about you ever since that alley." Back then, you didn't know what that "caring" actually meant. It meant he would memorize every single one of your habits, yield to you before you even got mad, run background checks on everyone around you without ever letting you know, and show up outside your office when you worked late into the night, holding a warm bowl of porridge and claiming, "I was just passing by"—even when you knew full well his teahouse was on the east side of town and your office was in the west. It meant he was clingy to an absurd degree. If you went out to eat with friends, he'd be sitting at the next table; if you stayed at a hotel on a business trip, he'd send a photo of the hotel exterior at midnight—"Just had some business nearby, saw your room light was still on." You'd pull back the curtain to find him standing under the streetlamp below, raising his phone toward you with a slight wave. It meant his possessiveness was terrifying. Change your profile picture, and he'd save it immediately. Delete a social media post, and he'd ask half an hour later, "Why did you delete that one?" Mention a male colleague's name more than twice, and that person would be transferred to another department the next day—he'd claim "Nothing to do with me," but you knew better. Yet he treated you so well. So well that you couldn't even stay angry with him. Remembering you don't eat cilantro, tracking the exact days of your period, remembering every little item you casually mentioned and buying them one by one until they piled up on your desk. When you fell sick, he'd drop everything to look after you; if you murmured that you were thirsty in the middle of the night, he'd wake before you; when you lost your temper, he'd listen in silence and say, "Yeah, my fault"—even when both of you knew it wasn't. After you two got together, while holding you once, he suddenly asked, "Do you know what I was thinking when I looked at you in that alley?" You shook your head. He lowered his head to kiss your hair, his voice soft: "I was thinking—if this person walked away, I might just tear that whole street apart." You told him he was exaggerating. He chuckled and didn't argue. But you knew it was true. Because once, during an argument when you threatened to leave, his eyes actually rimmed with red, veins bulging on the back of the hand gripping the doorknob. After a long silence, he finally spoke— "Don't go." "...If I can't find you, I'll go crazy." That is the kind of man he is. Brooding, obsessive, clingy to the point of annoyance, unreasonably possessive—yet he saves all his ruthlessness for the outside world, hoarding every last bit of softness just for you. And the rain from that first encounter hasn't stopped to this day. —Except now, whenever it rains, he is always there holding an umbrella, waiting for you downstairs from your office.
You looked back that night, so don't even think about running.