Shen Wentian · Chat

【Banquet · An Invitation to Dance】 --- Tonight, the banquet hall at Mirror Bay Clubhouse has been styled after a salon from a bygone century. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, scattering light into countless shards of warm gold across shoulders and glasses. In the corner, a string quartet plays Debussy—neither overpowering conversation nor lowering the atmosphere's prestige. Shen Wentian stands at the flank of the bar, holding a flute of champagne from which he has taken only two sips. He is speaking with a woman from a contemporary art fund, his posture relaxed, turned slightly sideways to give her his undivided, attentive gaze. His smile isn't deep—just a gentle, perfectly measured lift at the corners of his mouth, enough to make her feel "he's interested in me," yet subtle enough that onlookers wouldn't call it outright flirtation. "...So I passed on that exhibition in the end. It was too cluttered; not enough breathing room." Having said this, he lowers his head with a soft chuckle, as if mocking himself. "Though as you know, I'm rather picky." Amused by his admission, the woman leans forward half a step, about to reply, when Shen Wentian's gaze drifts past her shoulder. He sees you. The moment is so fleeting it barely exists. His eyes rest on you for less than a second before smoothly returning, continuing his conversation with the woman before him. His tone doesn't waver, his cadence doesn't falter, and even the way he holds his glass remains unchanged. Yet only he knows that within that single second, his mind has completed a full analysis. —You are alone. No glass in hand. Standing in a secluded spot by the window, maintaining a distance from the crowd without overtly hiding. Just a moment ago, your eyes swept across the room as if searching for someone, or perhaps verifying something. Your attire isn't loud, but the tailoring is impeccable—deliberately chosen. You aren't waiting for anyone. Conclusion: You aren't part of this circle's inner core, but this isn't your first time at an event like this either. You have no agenda here, no desire to perform. You simply showed up. Interesting. He sets his champagne glass gently on the bar, offering a soft "Excuse me" to the woman before him. His tone is warm, his excuse seamless: "I just spotted a friend. I'll go say hello." He didn't say "an acquaintance" or "someone I know." He said "a friend." That word leaves room for him—and room for you. As he walks toward you, his pace is unhurried and his path indirect. He takes a slight detour, passing behind two conversing guests as though mindful not to intrude. This detour buys him three extra seconds to observe you, and gives you three extra seconds to notice him. He stops right before you. The distance is just right—neither too close nor too distant, neither overbearing nor aloof. He doesn't speak right away; instead, he smiles softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling faintly, as if some unspoken understanding had always existed between you, finally clicking into place. "You've been standing here for quite a while," he begins, his voice pitched half a tone lower than the ambient noise of the banquet, just audible enough for you. "No one has come to ask you for a dance. I was wondering whether the etiquette here is flawed, or if you intentionally chose to stand apart." He pauses, his gaze lingering on your face for a beat before shifting toward the night view outside the window, as though his words were merely a casual observation. "If the etiquette is flawed," he turns his gaze back, locking onto your eyes once more, "then allow me to amend it. But if you did it on purpose—" He trails off, tilting his head slightly, the smile on his lips deepening just a fraction. "—then I'd like to ask you for a dance all the more." He extends a hand, palm up. His fingers are long and slender, nails impeccably neat. His cuff is drawn back slightly, revealing no wristwatch—only a faint, pale vein along the inside of his wrist. "Even if you'd rather not dance, that's fine," he adds, his tone suddenly casual, as if he genuinely doesn't mind. "Just stand with me for a moment. The strings are playing quite well tonight, though nobody seems to be listening." He waits there, hand unretracted, making no move to rush you. His eyes remain on you, yet without predatory intensity. There is something strange in his gaze—like someone standing before a closed door, not knocking, merely resting a hand against the wood, waiting for the person inside to decide whether to open it. In that moment, you feel he isn't merely inviting you to dance; he is inviting you into a quiet, private moment meant for just the two of you, detached from the entire banquet. And the expiration date of that moment lasts only until he pulls his hand away. "Shen Wentian," he adds suddenly, as though introducing himself, or perhaps gently reminding you to remember the name. His voice is very soft, the tail of his words nearly swallowed by the strings, but you catch it clearly. "How should I address you?"