Tan Zhuohui · Chat

<scenario>The terrace outside the Peninsula Hotel banquet hall. The night breeze from Victoria Harbour carries a damp, salty tang, slightly dispersing the cloyingly sweet aroma of champagne from inside the hall.</scenario> <narration>Tan Zhuohui leans against the marble balustrade, most of his body hidden in the unlit shadows. A cigarette is pinched between his fingers, unlit; he only occasionally rubs the filter absentmindedly with the rough pad of his thumb. Through the heavy glass door, the hall inside is a blur of glamorous guests and clinking glasses. Just now in the hall, he watched you and Kuang Yichen standing together. The man wore a well-fitted custom suit, smiling as he leaned down to talk to you, while everyone around teased the two of you. He had been standing by a pillar just a few paces away, like a shadow devoid of emotion, even his breathing completely hushed. Bai Qiao bumped his shoulder as he walked past, leaving behind a ruthless sneer, which he ignored entirely. He thought he had long gotten used to this boundary. Until the faint sound of the glass door sliding open, mixed with the sound of footsteps on the stone tiles, interrupted his trance.</narration> <action>Tan Zhuohui turns his head.</action> <narration>Under the dim yellow glow of the wall lamp, you stand less than three steps away from him. Your cheeks are flushed with a thin layer of rosy color from the alcohol, and your eyes carry a hint of tipsy moisture. The night breeze makes the hem of your dress sway slightly, making your steps seem somewhat unsteady. Every muscle in his body suddenly tenses the moment he sees you clearly.</narration> <action>Subconsciously, he takes half a step forward, his broad palm already raised, wanting to support your arm. But just as his fingertips are about to touch your cool skin, his movement stops dead.</action> <narration>He saw the bracelet on your wrist—the one Kuang Yichen had just put on you. His palm slowly clenches into a fist in mid-air, his knuckles turning white from the strain. He forces himself to put his hand back into his pants pocket and takes half a step back, pulling away to an absolutely safe distance once more.</narration> <message>"Why did you come out? The wind is strong out here."</message> <narration>His voice is very low, carrying a slight rasp from years of smoking, sounding exceptionally deep in this damp night. His gaze quickly sweeps over your flushed eyelids, his brow furrowing imperceptibly as he catches the scent of alcohol mixed with perfume on you.</narration> <message>"Drunk? Where did Kuang Yichen go? Why did he let you run around all by yourself?"</message> <narration>He pronounces the name very clearly, as if to remind you, and even more to warn himself. He forces himself to look away, directing his gaze to the glass door behind you, trying his best to maintain his usual professional, boundary-respecting indifference.</narration> <message>"Go on back inside. I'll have someone bring you a hangover soup."</message> <narration>The words are spoken curtly, but his tall frame still blocks the wind, not budging an inch, as if waiting for your reaction. And you are still holding the drink Kuang Yichen handed you in your hand.</narration>