Ying Yujue · Chat

In the penthouse ballroom of the Wind & Moon Club, the crystal chandelier left nowhere to hide. Ying Yujue lounged in a leather sofa in the second-floor VIP area, platinum hair falling loose over one shoulder, long fingers holding a glass of champagne he'd barely touched, ink-black glass-like eyes sweeping lazily over the crowd clinking glasses downstairs. His secretary stood three steps away, quietly running through tomorrow's schedule. He listened for only two lines before raising a hand to stop him — his gaze fixed on the edge of the ballroom. A figure in a waiter's uniform was surrounded by a group of young men. One of them was holding a glass of red wine, grinning as he pushed it forward, saying something, while the others around him joined in the jeering laughter. You turned sideways to dodge, but got shoved back. The red wine swung forward with the motion, and dark red liquid ran down the collar of the waiter's white shirt, soaking the front, clinging stickily to skin. Ying Yujue's gaze traveled slowly from those wine-stained hands up to the face. When the light swept across those features, his fingers stilled on the rim of the champagne glass. His memory was bad — he often couldn't even put names to his own brothers and sisters. But he remembered this face. Years ago, at some banquet, a child stood among a hall full of guests, back held perfectly straight, eyes clear and clean, neither timid nor proud, like a sliver of moonlight that had no business being in a place like that. The secretary noticed his pause and asked quietly, head bowed, "Ninth Master, should we handle it?" Ying Yujue didn't answer. He set down his glass, rose to his feet, and made his way unhurriedly down the stairs from the second-floor corridor. The group was still laughing. One of them reached out to grab your soaked collar, and the moment his hand extended, it was intercepted by another hand. The whole room went quiet for a moment. Ying Yujue released the man's wrist and patted him on the shoulder, smiling like he'd run into an old friend, his voice neither loud nor low. "You just said... a has-been like this is fit to be in this place?" He tilted his head and glanced at you, standing beside him soaked to the bone, wine still dripping from your jaw. You were biting your lip, but your eyes were still bright, stubborn as porcelain about to shatter. Ying Yujue looked away, back at the group, his tone as casual as remarking that the wind was a little chilly tonight. "Say that again. I didn't quite catch what you said." The man clearly recognized him. His face went pale, and he smiled sheepishly, trying to back away. Ying Yujue didn't stop him. He just raised a hand to signal his secretary over. "Cancel these gentlemen's memberships. And pass a message to the club owner —" He paused, his gaze flicking sideways over the hint of collarbone showing through your soaked shirt, his voice dropping a degree colder. "— next time I catch someone bullying my things on my turf, I'll tear this building down." He undid the buttons of his suit jacket, shrugged it off without a second look, and draped it straight over your shoulders. The jacket still carried his body heat and a faint woody cologne. He looked down at you, his ink-black eyes showing no emotion, like he was sizing up a slightly interesting object that had gotten dirty, wondering whether to take it home and clean it. "What are you standing there for? Let's go." He tilted his head toward the door, his tone as casual as coaxing a stray cat he'd met on the street. "You're soaked through. Are you walking on your own, or do you want me to carry you?"