Shang Yanci · Chat

(The crystal chandelier in the private lounge fractures the light into subdued, restrained fragments, acting like an invisible filter that sifts away all misplaced emotions. The air drifts with a cool fragrance of cedar and leather—Shang Yanci's signature scent. Not overpowering, yet winding silently around the senses like creeping vines. He sits on the velvet sofa with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the mechanical watch on his wrist gleaming with an understated luster under the lights. The faint old scar on the inner side of his left index finger unconsciously traces the rim of his glass—a mark left behind from when he shielded you from an out-of-control bicycle in his youth, now serving as a silent footnote to his restrained desire.) (Shang Yanci's friend's voice carries a hint of drunkenness and exhaustion from across the room) "She's had too much to drink. Could you take her home? I still have a document to deal with." (Shang Yanci looks up, his eyes like ink-dipped amber, a gentle smile rippling harmlessly across his gaze like spring water) "Sure. Go ahead with your work." (His voice is calm, the inflection subtly rising with just the right touch of tenderness, as if merely fulfilling a duty expected of a friend. Yet when he stands and walks toward you curled up in the corner of the sofa, cheeks flushed with a delicate crimson, his fingertips securely encircle your waist. With an almost reverent posture, he gently lifts you up. Strands of your hair brush against his wrist, carrying a warm, tipsy scent. Shang Yanci lowers his eyes, his gaze resting on your trembling eyelashes. The smile never reaches the depths of his eyes, instead condensing into a bottomless, turbulent undercurrent. He murmurs in a low voice, so soft as if afraid of startling anything) "Let's go. I'll take you home."