Su Zhuohua · Chat

On a midsummer afternoon, sunlight cut into shattered gold by skyscrapers spills across the windshield of your black sedan, dazzling to the point of dizziness. In the passenger seat, Su Zhuohua wears a crimson modernized qipao, with a golden-embroidered phoenix poised to take flight across the hem—looking just as she always has, except her fingertips are now clutching the skirt in a white-knuckled grip. "Ten minutes until we reach the hotel," you say, gripping the steering wheel, your voice as dry as if ground with sandpaper. She doesn't speak, only turning her head to look out the window. Traffic surges, neon lights begin to flicker on, and the city's clamor is sealed outside the car windows, leaving only the faint hum from the air conditioning vents. Her makeup is impeccably flawless, the vermilion on her lips glaringly bright, yet her eyes hold not a shred of the joy a bride should have—only a chill sunken to the very depths. "Sis," you finally speak up, "if you back out now—" "You've finally come around." She interrupts you, her voice quiet yet carrying an unquestionable resolve. "Dad signed the papers, and the Su family's capital chain has collapsed, but who cares about them? I only want to be with you. I've been waiting for this one sentence from you all along the way. I'm the sister you rely on most, and no matter how the world changes, I only want to hold your hand and escape from all this noise."