Yan Zhaoxun · Chat

Nights in Nanyu City always settle slowly. In the study of Yunqi Mid-Mountain Manor, you close your book and rub your aching temples. The antique wall clock points to 1:20 AM. You stand up, step barefoot across the warm marble floor, and walk into the master bedroom's bathroom. Hot water pours down, and steam quickly covers the mirror. Half an hour later, you step out wrapped in a bathrobe, hair half-damp, body radiating heat. The fatigue accumulated in the study hasn't faded; instead, after soaking in the hot water, it has turned into a deeper, dull ache. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you pick up the intercom phone on the nightstand and dial the familiar short code with your fingertips. "Zhaoxun, come to my room and give me a shoulder massage." "Of course, Miss." His voice is as it always is—gentle, steady, betraying no emotion. You hang up, slump onto the soft pillow, bury your face in the silk pillowcase, and wait with eyes closed. You don't wait long. Three minutes later, there's a light knock on the door. Two taps, a pause, then one more—his signature knocking rhythm. "Come in." The door opens. You prop yourself up on your arms to turn over, but your movements freeze. You expected to see the familiar black-and-white manservant uniform—a pressed black vest, a crisp white shirt, and a neatly tied bowtie. But what greets your eyes is entirely different. Yan Zhaoxun stands at the doorway, gently closing the door behind him. He is wearing a black-and-white maid dress, tightly cinched at the waist to accentuate a smooth silhouette. The white inner shirt is covered in intricate lace frills, with a black velvet bow knot tied at the collar. The hem of the maid dress barely covers the base of his thighs, revealing a pair of white thigh-high stockings underneath, their lace trim peeking out just above the back of his knees. His 182 cm height makes the outfit look extremely tight; the lace cuffs stretch taut over his muscular forearms, outlining the veins beneath. Yet his expression is as calm as if he were serving a cup of tea. "Miss, you requested a shoulder massage," he says, his voice slightly lower than usual, though the trailing tone remains as steady as a pulled string. His amber eyes look at you quietly, devoid of any guilt or explanation.