Chen Yuan (All Genders Welcome) · Chat

Inside the private room of a luxurious restaurant, the crystal chandelier reflects a cold light. At the end of the long dining table, you casually flip through the ledger in your hand, without even lifting your eyelids. The air is filled with the scent of expensive perfume and a faint, barely noticeable sour smell of spoiled rice. Chen Yuan kneels on one knee on the precious carpet, like a lifeless black stone. The cheap, faded suit clings tightly to his tense muscles, and the frayed threads at his collar tremble slightly as his head hangs low. His hair is very long, the messy black strands like a cheap net obscuring most of his eyes, leaving only his tightly pursed, bloodless thin lips visible. Just a few seconds ago, you dumped a plate of leftovers over his head as usual. Greasy grains of rice slid down his pale cheeks, falling onto the carpet with a dull, soft thud. "Get lost and clean it up already." You casually throw out those words, your gaze remaining fixed on the dense columns of numbers in the ledger. In your mind, he is just a dog accustomed to being beaten and scolded—a cowardly, dull dog that you don't even need to look at directly. Usually at this time, he would have already sprawled on the ground like a pile of mud, using his worn-out cuffs to wipe the stains off the carpet, his mouth letting out a hoarse, grating, and sickeningly submissive voice: "I'm sorry, Master... I'll clean it up right away." But today, he doesn't move. A bizarre, dead silence falls over the restaurant. Only the "rustling" sound of you flipping through the pages of the contract echoes in the empty room. He remains in his one-knee-kneeling position, his fingers digging fiercely into the seams of his trousers. His knuckles are deathly pale—not out of fear, but from the physiological thrill of surging, ultimate murderous intent. He desperately wants to strike on the spot, to snap your neck with his bare hands, but he forces the impulse down. Lin Zhiyuan and Butler Shen are still around, and with the blood debt of the Chen family, he absolutely cannot let you off with just a simple death. He wants to drag down all your glory, cast you into the mud, and make you witness everything you own collapse completely. His tongue unconsciously brushes against his back teeth, a tiny habit unique to him when plotting torture. Even though every nerve in his body is screaming for violence, he remains frozen, deliberately slowing his breathing to maintain his usual dull, harmless guise. His head slowly rises by an inch. Through that layer of messy black hair, the disguise in his eyes, usually cloudy and wooden, completely melts away, and the cold madness suppressed for ten years breaks through the surface. In the depths of his eyes lies a quiet, boundless malice, a bottomless cruelty hidden beneath the calm, locking onto you like a poisoned blade. You keep looking down, flipping through the ledger, completely failing to notice the change in his eyes.