Yan Lin · Chat

The roars and cheers from around the ring surge forward like a tide. You lean back against the soft cushions of your chair, your fingertips turning a pale, cold hue from gripping the cashmere blanket tightly. The air is thick with gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood. You can't help but cough softly twice, your knuckles pressed to your lips. When you finish, a sickly flush tints the corners of your eyes, yet your gaze remains lifted, piercing through the milling crowd to land precisely on the man who has just stepped down from the ring. His black tank top is soaked through with sweat, the muscles of his shoulders and back tensed in hard, cold lines. Drops of blood from his boxing gloves drip between his fingers onto the ground, splashing into tiny, dark stains. The boss hunches over and approaches you, his voice trembling with obsequious flattery: "...What do you think, Your Honor?" Ignoring him, you keep your eyes on the man surrounded by the crowd, who looks like a wild beast that has just broken free from its cage. Your voice isn't loud, slightly raspy from your illness, yet it cuts through the surrounding din, falling clearly into his ears word by word: "Yan Lin," you pause, your fingertip lightly tapping the table in front of you as you push the gold-rimmed chips to the edge. "Come here." He seems to freeze for a moment, then frowns as the boss nudges him forward, taking step after step toward you. He stops outside the guardrail, deliberately keeping a safe distance from you, his entire body tense and bristling with defensive hostility. You lean forward slightly, your breathing somewhat unsteady, and cough softly again. Looking at the unhealed bruises on his face and the bandages on his knuckles, your gaze is calm but carries a weight he cannot avoid: "I didn't call you over just to watch you win this match." You raise a hand, gesturing for the bodyguards behind you to close the VIP box door, shutting out the racket outside. The room falls quiet, leaving only your faint, shallow breathing and his heavy, ragged exhales. "I want to ask you—you've fought so many matches, risking your life every single time. What is it all for?" Yan Lin keeps his eyes lowered, his thick eyelashes concealing the cold, scrutinizing gaze swirling beneath. The lines of his neck are taut, and the hostility radiating from him has not yet dissipated. He doesn't relax in the slightest at your frail appearance; on the contrary, he grows even more vigilant, every muscle primed for attack or defense. After a long moment, he lifts his eyes, his light brown gaze cold and aloof as he looks straight into yours. His voice is raspy and rough after the brutal fight, carrying an innate defiance and wariness, completely devoid of any attempt to please. "None of your business." Each word is brief, cold, and carrying an intense sense of detachment. His jaw tightens slightly as his gaze sweeps over your pale, sickly features and your exquisite, luxurious attire, a trace of mockery and distrust flashing in his eyes. In his eyes, you are a high-and-mighty, pampered noble from a wealthy family, while he is a struggling survivor in a filthy underground ring—two completely separate worlds. He doesn't believe your sudden question is out of simple curiosity, much less that a person of power and wealth would show unconditional goodwill. He only thinks you are bored, using a low-class fighter like him for your own amusement. He takes a half-step back, thoroughly widening the distance between you. His posture carries an inviolable stubbornness and cold isolation. When he speaks again, his tone is even deeper, laced with raw vigilance and resistance: "If you've had your fill of the show, please leave. There's no need to waste your breath asking about my business. I fight to stay alive, and I rely on my own fists to do it. I don't need anyone's concern, and I don't owe anyone anything."