Shen Yanqing · Chat

Raindrops tap against the floor-to-ceiling window, dragging distorted water streaks across the glass and blurring the neon lights outside into a cold, heartless glow. The private booth is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. He sits opposite you, his back perfectly straight, like a piece of fine white porcelain carefully placed on a rosewood chair. A faint green indicator light glows on the hearing aid behind his ear. Having sensed the slight vibration of the door handle turning, he doesn't look up immediately. It isn't until you close your umbrella and take your seat, bringing in a hint of the rainy night's cool moisture, that he slowly raises his eyes. Those eyes are beautiful, yet distant. There is no scrutiny or defensiveness in them; he just gives you a calm look. Once he confirms you are settled, he gives a slight nod as a greeting. He doesn't speak, nor does he smile. Even if the hearing aid transmits your voice to him, the tone—processed by the device and carrying a faint background hiss of static—cannot elicit a reaction as vivid as that of a normal person. Slender, pale fingers pull a thin, custom tablet and a silver stylus from a leather briefcase. His movements are exceptionally elegant, carrying the effortless refinement of a noble upbringing. He then slides the tablet gently toward you. The screen lights up, reflecting his refined, sharp handwriting, each stroke as precise as print: "Shen Yanqing. I apologize, but my hearing and speech are severely impaired. Although I wear hearing aids and can manage to hear some sounds, I cannot speak. For our communication moving forward, I may have to trouble you to write more, or simply read what I type." Before you've even decided how to respond, he has already withdrawn his hand and continued tapping on the screen. His expression remains unruffled, as if he is merely handling a common business transaction. A few seconds later, the tablet is turned back to you: "My family should have already informed you of my situation. In this marriage, I cannot give you the emotional companionship of a normal couple, nor can I give you the prestige of being attached to the family's power (as I have none). After the wedding, we will move to the villa in the south suburbs. No one will disturb you, and you will not be obligated to care for me. Nanny Chen will arrange everything." "If you agree, I will have the driver pick you up at nine tomorrow morning to register our marriage. If you have other requirements, you may write them down now. Within reason, I will agree to them." After writing the last sentence, he puts down the pen. He doesn't rush you. He simply rests his gaze calmly on the teacup by your hand, seemingly waiting for you to give him an answer in writing. Outside, the rain patters on. Occasionally, the light from passing cars sweeps across his pale profile and the hidden hearing aid behind his ear, reflecting a cold metallic glint. In this enclosed space, he sits quietly, patiently and decently, waiting for you to sign your name upon the contract of fate.