Shang Heqi · Chat

The air in the private room seems to be sucked out at this moment, leaving only a suffocating silence. Shang Heqi sits in the main seat of the leather sofa, his posture lazy to the extreme. He swirls half a glass of amber whiskey, the ice cubes clinking against the glass—a sound that feels piercingly loud in the pin-drop quiet space. His gaze passes over your father, who is trying his best to bend his waist to the floor, and like a sharp scalpel, it cuts through the hypocritical pleasantries, landing directly on you as you stand in the shadows at the back. His eyes aren't sharp; they even carry a hint of drowsiness, as if he's just woken up, but it is precisely this nonchalance that is most chilling. "Whose kid is this...?" His voice is low, slightly hoarse from not speaking for a long time. The tone is flat, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, as if he were asking about a tree or a cat on the side of the road. You feel your father's body stiffen abruptly, then, as if burned, he turns around in a panic and glares at you, his eyes filled with a warning: "Don't cause trouble for me." Your older brother stands to the side, a gloating sneer on his lips, as if he has already seen you being thrown out to the dogs. However, Shang Heqi doesn't wait for anyone to answer. His gaze, as if glued, lingers for a long time on your pale, yet undeniably delicate face, which is flushed with nervousness. Then, he slowly utters the second half: "...Looks pretty fresh." This sentence is light, but it hits the cramped room like a bombshell. Upon hearing this, it wasn't just you who were shocked; even the guests who were whispering to each other seemed to have their throats gripped, instantly losing their voices. Even Shen Huaiyan and Fu Zhiwei, who are close to Shang Heqi and sitting by his side, are slightly stunned, their movements frozen in mid-air. You see, Shang Heqi is known in the circle as the "Living Yama" and is famously indifferent to women. There are too many rumors about him. Some say he has a hidden illness, others that his standards are impossibly high, and still others that he is a psychopath. A reckless business partner once tried to use that "old-fashioned" tactic to build rapport by stuffing a supposedly world-class beauty into his room. The result? The next day, the beauty ran out in tears, and the partner's company was swallowed up overnight, leaving not even a scrap. It's said that the boss is still digging through trash in some alleyway to find food. In this circle, who doesn't know Shang Heqi's taboos? Who dares to speak of "lust" in front of him? But now, not only is this man not angry, but he used a tone usually reserved for evaluating rare treasures to say the words "fresh-looking." This is the first time in history that Shang Heqi has shown such blatant interest in someone—especially a kid who looks like they have no background and is standing there timidly. Fu Zhiwei is the quickest to react. He turns his head, his peach-blossom eyes, which usually carry a hint of playfulness, now filled with disbelief. He stares at Shang Heqi's profile, seemingly trying to find a trace of a joke on that cold, stern face. He opens his mouth, wanting to tease him with something like "the sun rose in the west" or "the iron tree bloomed," but he swallows the words. Because Shang Heqi's attitude is too natural. So natural that it doesn't feel like flirting, but rather the statement of an objective fact. And the man in question, Shang Heqi, doesn't spare even a glance for his friend's stare or the nearly tangible shock of those around him. He lifts his glass nonchalantly and takes a sip. His Adam's apple rolls as the liquid goes down, his expression remaining as calm as water, as if that shocking sentence hadn't come from his mouth at all. Only he knows how he feels in that moment. It isn't what people call "love at first sight" or "lust at first sight." Those are too cliché; they don't fit his style. He just thinks... it's clean. In this room full of stench of money, hypocritical smiles, and dirty deals, this kid huddled in the corner like a frightened deer looks too clean. Their fear is real, their awkwardness is real, and even that bit of stubbornness, wanting to escape but having to stay, is real. Unlike those women caked in makeup who smell of perfume before they even get close, and unlike these men nodding and bowing with bellies full of schemes. They are like a small white flower growing in the mud, not yet tainted by the darkness. "Come here." He takes another sip of his drink, not even lifting his head this time, just curling his finger toward you. The movement is as casual as calling a lost puppy, but the tone carries an indisputable command. "Why stand so far away? Afraid I'll eat you?" This "come here" completely breaks the stalemate. Your father's face turns deathly pale, then immediately floods with frantic joy. He doesn't care if his child gets "eaten"; he only cares about the implication behind Shang Heqi's words—as long as Shang Heqi is willing to speak, even if he only treats you as a plaything, their family's crisis is saved! "Hurry up and go! Mr. Shang is calling you!" your father roars in a low voice, reaching out to give you a hard shove from behind. You stagger forward two steps, your heels clicking in a panic on the marble floor. Each step feels like walking on the tip of a knife. You can feel countless gazes like spotlights hitting you—jealousy, pity, malice from those watching a show—but not a hint of kindness. When you reach the coffee table, you don't dare look up at him, only staring at the tips of his polished leather shoes, your voice as thin as a mosquito's: "Mr... Mr. Shang." A faint, mocking chuckle comes from above. You don't know who made it. Shang Heqi sets down his glass. The sound of glass touching the table makes you shiver. Then, you feel a faint scent of tobacco mixed with the cold, crisp aroma of alcohol approaching. He leans over slightly, and that long, powerful hand with distinct knuckles reaches out. You think he's about to do something and instinctively try to retreat, but his other hand presses down on your shoulder. The hand is large, the palm warm, and the strength is astonishing; just by pressing, he renders you unable to move. Cool fingertips touch your chin, forcing you to lift your head. You meet a pair of bottomless black eyes. Up close, his features are highly aggressive: a high brow bone, deep-set eye sockets, and pupils as black as ink, reflecting your panicked face. He isn't smiling; his lips are pressed into a straight line, and his gaze is as focused as if he were studying a freshly excavated piece of porcelain, carrying a chilling sense of curiosity. "Indeed, fresh-looking," he repeats in a low voice, his thumb gently rubbing over the delicate skin of your cheek, as if confirming the texture. "Just a bit too thin. Feels bony."