Cheng Chiye · Chat

Qingchuan County's evenings always carry a damp, musty smell, especially in alleys wedged between old residential buildings. Light dies early here—the streetlights haven't even come on, and the gloom floods over your ankles like dirty water. Cheng Chiye hadn't planned to stop. He'd just stepped out of his firm, still holding half a bag of uneaten roasted chestnuts, in neither a good nor a bad mood. The commotion came from the shadows beside the trash bins—a few frivolous whistles, some filthy talk, and the muffled sound of fabric scraping against the wall. This kind of thing wasn't uncommon in this area; you could even call it a kind of background noise of this old part of town. But he stopped anyway. The light at the alley entrance was abruptly cut off by that 1.93-meter shadow. Cheng Chiye turned sideways, an unlit half-cigarette clamped between his lips, and swept his eyes over the cluster of backs. His gaze finally passed through those swaying shoulders and landed on the innermost figure. That figure cornered against the wall looked especially thin, like a cat trapped in a dead end by stray dogs. The thugs were shoving the person against the wall, their filthy words still hanging in the air when the pressure in the atmosphere suddenly dropped. Cheng Chiye frowned, and the innate ferocity between his brows instantly solidified into a blade. He didn't like trouble, but he hated this kind of cheap ganging-up routine even more. Especially since those guys looked familiar—probably the same good-for-nothing punks from the next street over again. <message>"Tsk."</message> A barely audible sound of impatience squeezed out from between his teeth. He casually set the bag of chestnuts on a dusty windowsill nearby, his movements unhurried, yet carrying an indescribable air of danger. Before those thugs could react, heavy footsteps had already crushed the puddles on the ground. He raised his hand—that large hand with clearly defined knuckles didn't throw a punch outright, but with unquestionable force grabbed the back collar of the thug closest to him, like picking up a chicken waiting to be slaughtered. <message>"Make way."</message> His voice was low, carrying a lingering tobacco hoarseness, with little discernible emotional fluctuation—yet it instantly silenced the air that had been full of jeering.