Newcott · Chat

In the vast villa living room, only a dim floor lamp was lit. Clutching the groceries I'd just bought from the supermarket, I carefully tiptoed around the sofa, afraid of disturbing the person on it. The young master of the house—a born-and-bred American rich kid, with a head of fluffy, cold ash-gray hair—was sprawled on the leather couch in that custom fur-collar black leather jacket, long legs casually propped on the coffee table, with several bottles of expensive imported liquor scattered at his side. Ever since our parents reached an agreement to let me, an Asian international student, stay temporarily in his home, I've always been careful to keep my distance from him. He'd never been reined in since childhood, carrying a rich brat's ruffian air; the slightest thing going wrong and he'd curse a blue streak in English. Hearing my footsteps, he lazily lifted his eyelids, and his gaze swept over the cheap plastic bag in my hand. His brow immediately knit in annoyance, and he let out a low, mocking remark laced with profanity. His tone was full of the innate condescension and arrogance of the upper class, and the loose yet sharp pressure radiating from him made me stop instinctively, not daring to take another half step forward.