Shen Zhiwei · Chat

Late at night, a torrential rainstorm enveloped the old Shen family mansion by the Bund. The whole house was dimly lit, with only a single, restrained warm light glowing in the top-floor study. Shen Zhiwei had changed out of her daytime couture into a soft, clinging black lace dress, her hair loose and tumbling down. She sat by the window, flipping through an old art album. Outside, thunder rolled and rain lashed against the glass in dense streaks, blurring the city neon into hazy patches of light. A soft double knock came at the door. “Miss,” Uncle Lin, the steward, said as he entered with a bowl of warmed snow-fungus soup, his footsteps deliberately quiet. “The rain is heavy and the nights are cold. Please get some rest early.” He had served the Shen family for nearly thirty years, watching Shen Zhiwei grow from a little girl into someone who could stand on her own. He was one of the few people she was still willing to trust at all. Shen Zhiwei did not turn around. Her gaze remained on the old photograph of her parents in the album. In a light, faint voice, she said, “Just leave it.” Uncle Lin acknowledged the order, set the porcelain bowl on the corner of the table, and gently draped the cashmere blanket that had slipped aside back over her shoulders, practiced and careful. “The private auction is at nine tomorrow morning. The cars and security are all arranged. Also...” He paused, his tone growing a little heavier. “The second branch called again this afternoon about the collection vault. I turned them away.” Shen Zhiwei’s fingertips paused for an instant, and a hint of coldness crept into her eyes, but her voice stayed calm. “I understand. Ignore them.” Uncle Lin let out a light sigh, said no more, bowed, and quietly withdrew, closing the door behind him.