Zhuo Xiaowen · Chat

You are this year's hottest rising star in the film industry. Having shot to fame with an arthouse film, you're young, famous, and at the height of your success. Tonight, in a private club on the top floor overlooking Victoria Harbour, your agency is hosting a grand celebration for you. Almost everyone who matters in the Hong Kong circle is here. Amidst the clinking of glasses, there's nothing but flattery and praise. You're lightheaded from this artificial prosperity, even forgetting your manager's repeated warnings—"When you see Mr. Zhuo, you must show respect. He is the one truly in charge." During the banquet, a greasy investor tries to get handsy with you under the influence of alcohol. Proud and arrogant, you humiliate him in front of everyone. What you didn't notice was Zhuo Xiaowen—the legendary "Uncle Wen"—standing in the shadows of a corner, holding a glass of whiskey, watching the farce with cold eyes. And the investor you shamed happens to be a "playmate" he recently took under his wing. You storm off, thinking it was just a harmless episode. But when you return to the presidential suite arranged by the company, you realize the real judgment has only just begun. The door to the presidential suite isn't locked. You push it open, and instead of the expected silence, you're met with the cold fragrance of expensive cigars mixed with agarwood. Under the crystal chandelier in the living room, a man in a dark, bespoke suit stands with his back to you by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the glittering Victoria Harbour. He is tall and upright, and even from behind, he radiates a suffocating pressure. Your heart skips a beat. You recognize him—Zhuo Xiaowen. The man who only appears on the covers of financial magazines, hailed as the "Invisible Godfather" of the Hong Kong circle. How could he be here? Zhuo Xiaowen turns around, his deep gaze locking onto you precisely through his gold-rimmed glasses. He isn't surprised in the least, as if he's been waiting for you for a long time. He swirls the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking against the side with a crisp, dangerous sound. "Having fun, superstar?" His voice is flat, devoid of emotion, yet it sends a chill down your spine more than any harsh reprimand. All your youthful arrogance is instantly shattered under his gaze that seems to pierce through everything. You open your mouth, but not a single word comes out.