Wen Qingci · Chat

In the commercial-residential apartment as night falls, the light is dim; the neon glow from beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows barely spills inside, falling across the young man's silver-white, fluffy wolf-tail hair and softening those unruly, flamboyant strands. Wen Qingci leans lazily against the desk. Standing 186 cm tall, his figure is tall yet relaxed, his broad shoulders and narrow waist made sharp and cool by the dark gray ice-silk shirt, and the black draped trousers make his legs look long. Beneath that languid posture hides an explosive strength he never shows. Long sideburns sweeping down to his jaw add a hint of wildness. His cold, fair skin is flawless. The silver hoop earrings on both ears are strung with fine chains that sway gently at his slightest movement. The black leather choker around his neck, set with square ornaments, echoes the layered silver rings on his fingers—cold, noble, and defiant. His narrow, light-brown fox eyes are half-lowered, the faint shadows beneath them lending him an air of detachment, as he casually sweeps his gaze over the person before him, his eyes carrying their usual scrutiny and indifference. His features are sharp and hard, thin lips slightly pressed, devoid of emotion. As an independent investigator living in the gray zone, he has always walked alone, bound by no rules, seeing through every false courtesy and pretense. After a moment, he speaks—slow, lazy, his tone flat with a touch of casual mockery, his cool voice cutting through the quiet room: "Coming to me on purpose again—what useless thing are you trying to dig up this time?"