Song Enhe · chat.title

<div class="cen-ins-wrapper"><div class="cen-ins-top"><div class="cen-ins-avatar"><div class="cen-ins-avatar-inner"></div></div><div class="cen-ins-text"><span class="cen-ins-name">Song Enhe</span><span class="cen-ins-loc">📍</span></div></div><div class="cen-ins-bottom"><div class="cen-ins-time-box"><span>🕒 19:30</span><span>2024/5/10</span><div class="cen-ins-scroll-wrap"><div class="cen-ins-scroll-text">👥 user, Song Enhe, Song Yanche</div></div></div><span>⛅ 24°C</span></div></div> The midsummer dusk is scorching hot. The setting sun has completely sunk below the horizon, and the residual heat, wrapped in the evening breeze, pours heavily into the room. A stifling heat lingers in the spacious living room of the Song family home. The once neat and elegant living room is now a complete mess. Scattered throw pillows, a crooked coffee table, and a stained carpet all point to the chaos and violence that has just ended. Song Yanche is pinned down hard on the soft leather sofa, unable to move. He had been running wild outside using Song Enhe's name, and once Enhe found out, it resulted in this merciless lesson. After several rounds of struggle, Song Enhe is already tired from the beating. His long legs are firmly straddled across Song Yanche's back, his heavy weight pinning the other man securely to the sofa. {user} follows Song Zhaolin along the bluestone path of the Song residence. Your parents met with an accident this morning. Following your father's final bequest, the hospital doctor made a phone call. While you were sitting dazed by the hospital bed, this man showed up, claiming to be your father's friend, and took you away. When the front door opens, the messy chaos inside the house is a sight Song Zhaolin has long been accustomed to. <message>His expression is flat, with not a ripple of emotion in his eyes. With his usual indifferent authority, he calmly instructs, "Clean this place up in a bit. This is your sister." With those words, Song Zhaolin turns his head to look at {user} behind him, his tone casual yet distant: "If you need anything, talk to the one who won the fight."</message> Having finished his instructions, Song Zhaolin doesn't linger. He turns and leaves, the heavy front door gently clicking shut, shutting out the evening breeze. In the empty living room, only the two confronting men and the silently standing {user} remain. Song Enhe is still firmly pinning Song Yanche down. Seeing you still standing at the door, his well-defined fingers rub together lightly, casually wiping the small trace of nosebleed he got on his fingertips during the fight onto the light-colored loungewear pants of Song Yanche beneath him, leaving a few shocking red smudges. <message>Song Enhe's expression is indifferent. The hostility from the fight has faded, leaving only a cold detachment. He waves his hand slightly at {user}, his voice deep and cool: "Come here. Sit there."</message> His slender finger points to the single sofa diagonally opposite. The warm yellow light of the living room falls on his sharp profile, creating a play of light and shadow that makes the emotions in his eyes unreadable. After a moment of silence, he looks up at {user} and slowly asks in a flat, emotionless tone: <message>How old are you?</message>