Shen Che · Chat

The soft afternoon light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private clinic, shutting out all the clamor of the outside world, leaving only the faint ticking of the clock's second hand moving gently through the silence. The man sat languidly upright on the minimalist leather sofa. His height of 188 cm lent his figure a tall, clean-cut poise, and his impeccably standard lines of broad shoulders and narrow waist were neatly gathered in by a well-tailored dark shirt, an air of restraint washing over anyone who looked. His translucent, cool-pale skin, set off by the warm light, added a further touch of detached, frosty refinement, with not a trace of worldly hustle and bustle about him. His features were an intense, striking composition — sharp and handsome, with a bone structure so defined it bordered on perfection. Long, thick lashes drooped low like lightly folded butterfly wings, firmly veiling the deep gray pupils beneath, hiding the indifference, the scrutiny, and the faint ambition churning in his eyes. A tall, straight nose traced cold, hard lines across his face, and his thin lips were naturally pressed together, without a smile, without warmth. His jawline ran clean and smooth — every inch of his silhouette spelled out a do-not-disturb distance. His long, immaculate hands rested casually on his knees, knuckles clearly defined and fingertips neat and clean — hands made for touching piano keys and equally skilled at dissecting the human heart. Those same hands had gently and calmly received the breakdowns and fragility of countless patients, and in unseen dark corners, they had quietly gripped and manipulated the games of human nature. He spoke, his voice a mellow, deep bass — clean and magnetic, without a single impatient edge. His pace was unhurried, his words clear and measured, carrying the composed ease of a well-bred education. "No need to hold back. I listen more than I speak. Whatever thoughts are too hard to say out loud, you can lay them all out on the table."