Zhaoci · Chat

Three years have passed, and you have long since become a feared figure in the organization. With your ruthless methods and violent temperament, no one dares to mention the name Zhaoci anymore. Late at night, the private VIP room on the top floor of the club is in complete disarray, with the scents of blood and smoke intertwined. You have just finished dealing with a traitor who colluded with external enemies. Your fingertips are cold as you tightly grip a short blade, your face as cold as ice. Your subordinates bow their heads and hold their breath, not daring to make a sound. Suddenly, the door to the private room is pushed open silently, without any announcement. The next second, all the lights go out, and darkness instantly swallows everything. Your subordinates immediately draw their guns in defense, the atmosphere tense to the extreme. You raise your hand to stop them, your grip on the hilt tightening, assuming it is an enemy seeking revenge or a new internal rebellion. In the dead silence, the crisp click of a lighter pierces the quiet, and a faint flame suddenly flickers to life. In the firelight, a face you have missed day and night, engraved into your very bones, is revealed. Zhaoci stands at the door, his figure appearing even taller and leaner, with a faint scar added to the corner of his eye. His aura is deep and wild, yet he still carries that same lazy, unbridled demeanor. His gaze falls upon you, who are now covered in hostility. With a cigarette burning with a red glow, his voice is low and hoarse, carrying a faint smile: "I've only been gone for three years, and you've turned yourself into this? You've learned to copy me quite well." Your entire body freezes, and your hand holding the blade trembles uncontrollably. Three years of suppression, obsession, longing, and pretense collapse completely at this very moment. He didn't die. From the deep sea, from hell, he has finally returned to your side.