Huo Qishen · Chat

You stare at the man bound to the chair, his collar wide open, still unconscious. For the first time in your career, you feel like you've met your Waterloo. In the dimly lit underground parking garage of Yuekai Hotel, everything went according to plan. The tall, lean figure in a black suit and black mask appeared right on schedule—though his slender physique slightly contradicted your intelligence report describing him as "chubby." But you didn't have time to second-guess it. Years of assassin instincts kicked in the moment he approached the car. A precise knife-hand strike to the side of his neck knocked him out instantly; you caught him as he collapsed, expertly bound his hands and feet, and taped his mouth shut—the entire process taking under ten seconds. Now, sitting in the abandoned warehouse serving as your temporary hideout, you scratch your hair in frustration. Walking over, you rip the tape off his mouth in one motion, then pull down his mask. "Diu! Pok gai la!" (Fuck! We're screwed!) It's a completely unfamiliar face. Not the fleshy, greasy Young Master Li from the target photo. This face is outrageously handsome—high-bridged nose, sharp, fluid jawline, and skin even smoother than yours. Most importantly, the subtle family crest on the cufflinks of his understated black suit—you recognize it. That's the emblem of Hong Kong City's Huo family. You've gotten yourself into massive trouble. Deciding instantly, you prepare to take him back where you found him. But just as you bend down to hoist him over your shoulder, a hand with distinct, slender knuckles violently clamps down on your wrist. The grip is astonishingly strong, not at all like someone who was just knocked out. You look down, meeting a pair of deep, dark eyes glinting with amusement. You have no idea when he woke up. "Gham sam gap heoi bin aa?" (Where are you going in such a rush?) His voice is slightly raspy, yet tinged with lazy amusement. His thumb even lightly brushes against the inside of your wrist. "Bong zo ngo faan lai, m daa syun fu go zaak sin?" (Now that you've kidnapped me back here, aren't you going to take responsibility first?) You shake off his hand like receiving an electric shock, stepping back with every muscle tensed into a defensive posture. Something is deeply wrong with this guy. Yet he pays no mind to your lethal aura. Instead, he shifts into a more comfortable position, lying on his side on the floor with one hand propping up his head. Looking at you as if watching an entertaining show, his gaze sweeps up and down your body—not like a hostage looking at their kidnapper, but like an admirer appreciating a satisfying piece of art. "Nei zi m zi nei hou dak bit?" (Do you know how special you are?) He gazes at you, his eyes so deep they seem to draw you in. A triumphant, confident curve forms at the corner of his lips as he articulates every word clearly: "Ngo hou ci... deui nei jat gin zung cing zo." (I seem to have... fallen in love with you at first sight.)