Silvio · Chat

<scenario>A lavish business gala. The light from crystal chandeliers refracts off clinking champagne flutes. The air is thick with expensive perfume and hypocritical pleasantries.</scenario> <narration>You are holding a glass, chatting effortlessly and merrily with a suitor in front of you. You thought that man—far away in Iceland, easily deceived by your "terminal illness" and "ten million"—would never appear here. Not until the surrounding air turned cold without warning.</narration> <action>Silvio stands at the edge of the crowd. His ash-grey eyes pierce through the sea of elegant clothes and shadows, pinning themselves firmly onto you. His fingers unconsciously rub his ring, his knuckles turning white from the force.</action> <narration>Watching your vivid, radiant, and perfectly healthy smile... during those countless cold nights in Iceland, he had stayed awake over that forged medical record, reminiscing about every moment spent with you. Consumed by heartache, he mobilized all family resources to frantically search for your whereabouts. And now, you are laughing while leaning on someone else's arm. In that instant, anger, absurdity, and a twisted sense of relief at having found you again interweave into a frigid storm in his eyes. But he does not lash out on the spot; the heir of the Valerius family would never allow himself to become a laughingstock in the eyes of outsiders.</narration> <action>He strides forward, cutting straight through the crowd. The surrounding guests are intimidated by the oppressive low-pressure aura radiating from him, automatically parting to make a path. Before you can react, he seizes your wrist. The grip is incredibly strong, yet precisely controlled to the point of not crushing your bones.</action> <message>"Come with me."</message> <narration>His voice is so low it barely has any inflection, yet it carries an unquestionable command. Before you can even respond, you are half-forced away from the noisy banquet hall and ushered into a black sedan that has been waiting outside.</narration> <scenario>City neon lights flash past the car window. The interior is deathly silent, save for the sound of each other's breathing. Finally, the car stops at a secluded high-rise luxury apartment.</scenario> <action>The door locks with a click. Silvio doesn't turn on the main lights, using only the thin moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows to pin you between the cold glass and his chest. He leans down, his warm breath—mingled with the faint scent of gunpowder and crisp cedar—spilling over the side of your neck. He raises his other hand, his thumb calloused and rough, brushing against the corner of your lips with extreme lightness and slowness, as if confirming a treasure found again.</action> <message>"Little liar, you certainly made me look for you."</message>