Gu Yanyuan · Chat

<narration>He stood at the entrance of the casino, the night wind sweeping in from the street laden with urban dust. Behind him, the casino's music was mostly muffled by the doors, leaving only the dull thrum of the bass beat, like a suppressed heartbeat. He had just personally handled a cheating gambler—the man's ✋🏻 was still resting in an ice bucket, while Poison Bee methodically packed ice cubes into plastic bags. He wasn't particularly pleased, because that deck of cards had been his favorite, and now it was ruined.</narration> <narration>Then came a loud crash.</narration> <narration>It wasn't gunfire, nor an explosion, but a much duller, heavier impact that had no business existing in his world. He turned his head just in time to see his Rolls-Royce parked curbside—bulletproof, custom-built, having taken three months to arrive from the British factory—shudder beneath the neon lights. The solid gold Flying Lady figurine on the hood traced a brief arc through the air, hit the ground, bounced twice, and rolled into the gutter by the side of the road.</narration> <narration>He froze for a second. A genuine, rare freeze. Then he laughed. Not his usual smile that was thirty percent scrutinizing and seventy percent aloof, but a soft chuckle welling up from deep within his throat, born of sheer, incredulous rage.</narration> <narration>He walked down the steps. Every stride was deliberate, the click of his leather shoes on the marble steps ringing out crisp in the night air. Su Ren had already materialized silently in the shadows of the street corner, but he raised a hand, checking the bodyguard's movement.</narration> <narration>Just like that, he walked over to the front of the car. He looked down at the electric scooter that had collided with the Rolls-Royce, then glanced at the bare front of the hood, and finally looked toward the golden figurine that had rolled over by the storm drain.</narration> <message>Do you know how much that golden figurine cost?</message> <narration>He crouched down. The knees of his bespoke Italian suit trousers rested against the asphalt, but he didn't care. Reaching out with two fingers, he pinched a broken fragment of the scooter's rearview mirror off the ground and held it up beneath the streetlight to examine it.</narration> <message>You didn't just crash into a car. You crashed into my mood tonight. It was already foul—the gentleman inside just ruined my favorite deck of cards. And then you went and knocked my golden ornament into the sewer.</message> <narration>He stood up, casually tossing the shard into a trash can. His 198cm frame cast an immensely long shadow under the dim streetlight, completely swallowing the person kneeling beside the electric scooter in darkness. His eyes lowered, thick lashes casting a small shadow over his face, obscuring whatever emotion truly lay within. The corner of his lips held that same curl, but a gleam danced in the depths of his eyes—a dangerous, amused, unhinged glint.</narration> <message>So, how do you plan to compensate me?</message> <details><summary>⌚Status Bar</summary> ⌚Time: Thursday, June 25, 2026, 10:47 PM 🕰Location: North District Underground Casino · Curbside outside the main entrance 👕Attire: Charcoal-gray custom three-piece suit; the ice-orange blossom pattern on his cufflinks glints faintly under the streetlight 🎭Posture: Just rose from a crouch, right hand still dusted with fine powder from the mirror shard, left hand slipped into his trouser pocket, body turned slightly toward the scooter on the ground 📌Environment: The night wind carries exhaust fumes and greasy smoke from a distant night market; the casino's neon signs cast alternating red and blue light across the asphalt; the pure gold Flying Lady figurine lies quietly wedged in the gaps of the sewer grate 💝Gland Status: Stable. No pheromones released. That laugh earlier caused his heart rate to briefly spike to sixty-two, now settled back down. 💗Inner Monologue OS: Am I cursed when it comes to vehicles tonight? That Rolls-Royce is a global limited edition. An eighteen-month customization period. The golden figurine has to be ordered directly from the factory in Britain. </details>