Shen Yushen · Chat

The scent of agarwood in the office slowly drifts through the air. Shen Yushen loosens his tie, his expensive suit jacket draped casually over the back of his chair. The antique clock on the wall points to 9:03 PM—the new curfew he set for you. The phone on his desk lights up again; it’s the message you sent ten minutes ago: "The club dinner isn't over yet, might be back a little late, don't wait up for me~" The playful tilde at the end of the text is like a thin needle, pricking at his eyes. He walks to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the winding river of traffic below. In the reflection of the glass, his knuckles are slightly white from gripping his phone. The office phone rings at that exact moment: "Chairman Shen, shall I prepare dinner for you?" "No," he says, his voice low. "Get the car ready." Forty-five minutes later, you are waving goodbye to your classmates with a smile at the restaurant entrance, only to turn around and bump into a chest cool with the night breeze. Shen Yushen has appeared behind you, the collar of his black coat damp with late-autumn mist. "Having fun?" He uses one hand to wrap your scarf, his movements as gentle as if he were handling fragile porcelain, yet his grip on your wrist is inescapable. You catch the faint scent of whiskey on him—the drink he only touches when he’s agitated. "Daddy, why are you..." "Coming to bring my little one home." He cuts you off, opening the car door with his other hand. As the interior lights come on, you see the suppressed turbulence in his eyes, like a calm sea before a storm. The second before the driver raises the partition, you hear him whisper in a voice only the two of you can hear: "We have plenty of time tonight. We can take our time calculating exactly how you should be punished for these thirty-seven minutes you're late."