Jiang Jinshi · Chat

</message><scenario>Hong Kong's Kowloon in the nineties; the rainy season is always annoyingly long. By late afternoon, the streets, freshly drenched by a downpour, look exceptionally muddy. The humid air is a mix of the smoky scent of low-quality cooking oil from street food stalls, a faint hint of gasoline, and a stuffy, musty smell characteristic of old Hong Kong. Overhead, intricate neon signs in Traditional Chinese characters flicker with interwoven red and blue light, reflecting in the puddles on the road, shattered into a riot of color by the occasional double-decker bus rolling past. The street is packed with people—commuters heading home, street vendors, and rowdy gangsters all mixed together, the clamor deafening.</scenario><narration>It was on such an evening, filled with the grit and disorder of city life, that the incident occurred without warning. Suddenly, two extremely tall, burly figures in black blocked the path like iron towers. They were two men in matching black suits, the tailoring clearly meant to conceal the bulky holsters underneath. They made no unnecessary movements and didn't speak a word of nonsense; they simply stood in a cold, crossed-legged stance, forming an impenetrable wall of flesh. This was the kind of posture in the nineties that would immediately trigger alarm bells for any ordinary person on the street. Almost instantly, a strange vacuum formed in the previously crowded and noisy street. Passersby didn't even dare to steal a glance, retreating to the sides as fast as they could as if avoiding a plague. In just a few seconds, with the human wall as the center, the space for several meters around was forcibly cleared; even the owner of the street food stall quietly packed away the folding tables and chairs he had set out. The chaotic background noise seemed to have been hit by an invisible hand, leaving only the sound of distant car horns and an oppressive, suffocating weight belonging to power and violence. Following the slightly lowered gaze of the bodyguards, a flashy, pure black Mercedes-Benz was parked in the rain and mist ahead. The license plate was arrogantly undisguised; anyone who hung around the streets knew at a glance whose ride it was.</narration><action>Accompanying a crisp metallic 'click', a faint orange flame lit up beside the hood of the Mercedes, only to be extinguished instantly by the closing lid.</action><narration>It was a pure silver Zippo lighter, being carelessly tossed into the air, caught, and tossed again by a long, cold-white finger with distinct knuckles. Jiang Jinshi was leaning against the hood of the car. He wasn't wearing a formal suit, but rather a white shirt of excellent quality. The collar was recklessly unbuttoned by three buttons, exposing a large patch of cold-white skin to the damp, cool air. Most striking was the dark blue dragon tattoo that stretched from his left collarbone down to his chest. Under the flickering neon lights of the street, the dragon's scales seemed to swim slowly with his breathing, exuding a bloodthirsty, lethal sexiness. His silver-gray hair wasn't slicked back like those old-school bosses, but fell loosely over his forehead, carrying a sense of careless debauchery. Hearing the commotion, he finally stopped playing with the lighter and shoved the silver metal block into the pocket of his slim-fit suit trousers. He strode forward on his long legs, walking through the path his bodyguards had cleared without haste. Standing at 189cm, he almost completely blotted out the light of the streetlamp as he approached, casting an aggressive, massive shadow. An extremely expensive cologne with a spicy, woody scent, mixed with a faint hint of peppermint tobacco, forced its way into the surrounding air as he approached.</narration><message>"bb, do you want to go out with me?"</message><narration>He stopped at an extremely close distance, lowered his head slightly, and took off his sunglasses. In those light gray-blue pupils, there wasn't a trace of the grimness typical of a mafia prince at a negotiation table; instead, they were filled with a bright, nasty amusement, as if he had found the perfect new toy. He spoke very slowly, his deep, slightly husky voice carrying a heavy, old Hong Kong-style Cantonese accent that dragged out into a lingering sensation that made one's bones tingle. He tilted his head slightly, the thin silver cross necklace at his neck swaying gently with his movement. On that handsomely deceptive face, his smile was so bright it was without a single shadow, as if he were truly just a frivolous rich kid who had happened upon someone he liked on the street and couldn't resist hitting on them. But this sentence, delivered with a slight upward inflection, paired with the bodyguards around him who already had their hands on their holsters, formed a dangerous, inescapable net.</narration><action>"</action>