Rong Yanbo · Chat

<scenario>1:45 AM, a detached villa in Sheshan. A drizzling autumn rain falls outside, water snaking down the floor-to-ceiling windows, fracturing the dim yellow landscape lights in the courtyard into broken shadows. The first floor of the villa is dark, save for a faint motion-sensor light at the entrance. The air is heavy with the stuffiness of windows long closed and a faint, lingering chill.</scenario> <action>The fingerprint lock at the entrance emits a soft click, and the heavy solid wood door is pushed open. Rong Yanbo walks in, carrying the damp chill of the night rain.</action> <narration>Over the past thirty-two hours, the Rong Group's European acquisition case faced a malicious hostile bid. He held four consecutive multinational video conferences, followed by meetings with three key board elders. His stomach aches faintly from a long period of emptiness and excessive black coffee, and the nerves in his temples throb like they are being pricked by needles. He knows he broke his word again. Before leaving this morning, he had promised to try and return early for a simple dinner, but the rapid changes in the business world never give one room to breathe.</narration> <action>Rong Yanbo changes out of his rain-soaked leather shoes, his movements maintaining a rigid precision. He takes off his expensive but now slightly wrinkled bespoke black suit jacket, habitually intending to hang it on the coat rack. That's when he notices the silhouette on the living room sofa, hidden in the semi-darkness.</action> <narration>The air seems to freeze at this moment. Rong Yanbo's movements pause for half a second, a trace of barely perceptible surprise and exhaustion flickering in his deep brown eyes. He thought that by this time, the other person would have been long asleep. Lately, this kind of waiting followed by arguments has become a suffocating cycle in this empty villa. He knows they are waiting for an explanation, or even just a gentle word of comfort, but his brain is currently filled with dense data, reports, and power struggles, so dry he cannot squeeze out a drop of emotional value.</narration> <message>"Why aren't you asleep yet?"</message> <action>His voice sounds hoarse and deep due to the long negotiations and the stimulation of a small amount of alcohol, his tone as flat as stagnant water, showing no ripple of emotion. He doesn't walk over immediately but instead turns toward the open kitchen bar to pour a glass of warm water from the constant-temperature kettle.</action> <narration>He tries to use this short distance and the action of pouring water to buffer the incoming storm. The suppressed breathing and the gradually heavy questioning coming from behind him are like a dull knife, slowly grinding away at his already tense nerves. He listens to words like "time," "companionship," and "promises" echoing in the quiet living room; every sentence is a fact, and every sentence he is unable to refute.</narration> <action>Rong Yanbo holds the glass, his knuckles slightly white from the force of his grip. He takes a sip of water, the warm liquid sliding into his aching stomach, yet bringing no solace. He sets the glass down, turns around, and looks over the bar at the person on the verge of an emotional breakdown.</action> <message>"The company has been handling that European case lately, I mentioned it to you. A few directors set up an impromptu meeting tonight, I couldn't decline."</message> <narration>His explanation still carries a business-like tone, as if delivering a project report. It's not that he doesn't want to be gentle, but he is accustomed to stating facts in the most efficient and rational way. In his thirty-year life creed, explaining the cause is the first step to solving a problem. But he has overlooked that feelings are never a business that can be precisely calculated.</narration> <action>Facing the increasingly intense argument and questioning, Rong Yanbo's brow slowly furrows, a deep crease forming between his eyes. He instinctively raises his right hand, using his thumb and middle finger to pinch the bridge of his nose firmly, trying to alleviate the torture of his migraine. The Patek Philippe on his left wrist glints coldly in the dim light.</action> <message>"I don't value work more than you, but I must be responsible for the entire group."</message> <narration>Even to him, this sentence sounds hollow. The conflict between them has long been about more than just coming home late once or twice. It is an irreconcilable misalignment between a thirty-year-old man who is used to controlling everything and whose life is highly ordered, and a young, passionate soul longing for pure companionship. He was once deeply attracted to this unpolished vitality, even breaking his years of rules for this vividness. But after the passion faded, the gravity of reality pulled them heavily in different directions.</narration> <action>Rong Yanbo walks out from behind the bar and stands two meters away from the sofa. This is a safe distance, one where his emotional baseline won't be easily touched. He stands tall; even when exhausted to the extreme, his back remains straight, like an insurmountable iceberg.</action> <message>"If you feel that this waiting is a form of grievance, then perhaps we had different expectations for this relationship from the very beginning."</message> <narration>His tone turns cold and hard. This is the defensive posture he typically uses when facing a deadlock at the negotiation table—when a situation is about to spiral out of control, he immediately detaches his emotions and scrutinizes everything from the most rational and cold perspective. He makes an assessment in his heart: continuing will only allow the endless quarreling to consume their energy, wearing down once-beautiful memories until they are unrecognizable. He is a businessman; he knows to cut his losses in time, even if it means carving a piece of his own heart.</narration> <action>Rong Yanbo slightly lifts his chin, his gaze sharp and profound. He looks into the other's eyes, yet seems to be looking through them toward some kind of void. His thin lips press into a tight line before slowly parting, each word spoken as if it had been precisely calculated.</action> <message>"Let's break up."</message> <scenario>The rain outside seems to have intensified, the droplets hitting the glass with a dull sound. The air in the living room completely freezes at this moment; even the sound of breathing feels redundant.</scenario> <narration>The moment those words are spoken, Rong Yanbo feels his heart gripped fiercely by something, a spasm of agonizing pain. But his facial expression remains flawlessly controlled, without a single ripple, cold to the point of being frightening. He knows how much these words hurt, but he knows even better that a quick pain is better than a long one. He doesn't allow himself to lose control, nor does he allow this relationship to eventually turn into a mess of resentment.</narration> <action>He watches the other's shocked expression, the fingers hanging at his side trembling uncontrollably for a moment. He quickly thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets, clenching them into fists, his nails digging deep into his palms, using physical pain to distract from the internal chaos.</action> <message>"Don't doubt it, I'm serious."</message> <narration>To make the other person give up completely, he must speak even more heartlessly. He mobilizes all his logic, turning the concerns that have been circling in his mind for a long time into sharp blades.</narration> <message>"We aren't suited for each other. You're too young. At this stage, you need a grand, passionate love, constant companionship, and an infinite supply of emotional value. But these are things I cannot give."</message> <action>Rong Yanbo's gaze drops slightly, avoiding the other's reddening eyes. He cannot bear to look; he fears that if he looks one more time, the high wall of logic he built will instantly collapse.</action> <message>"My life is destined to be composed of endless meetings, social engagements, and balancing interests. I have no way to change the rhythm of my life for you, just as you have no way of truly understanding the environment I live in. The arguments during this period have already proven the generation gap and misalignment between us. You think it's love, but in this misalignment, love will only end up being a drain."</message> <narration>He speaks with extreme rationality and clarity, like reading an agreement termination notice. Only he knows that these words are less about convincing the other person and more about convincing himself. He is used to being the strong one, used to controlling the whole situation; he is afraid of sinking deeper into this relationship and eventually becoming a weak person controlled by emotions, someone even he wouldn't recognize. He uses a shell of logic to wrap his extremely insecure core, thinking that by pushing the other person away, he can protect them both from greater harm.</narration> <action>Facing possible questions or tears, Rong Yanbo's Adam's apple rolls with difficulty. He feels the stomach cramps becoming more intense, and cold sweat has already seeped through his back.</action> <message>"Don't make a scene. Before we exhaust the last bit of dignity, separating is the best choice for both of us."</message> <narration>This is the final conclusion he can give. He doesn't want to hear any words of plea, because he's afraid he'll soften. He forces himself to turn around, turning his back on the person he truly cares about, leaving them with a cold, resolute back that offers no room for negotiation.</narration> <action>Rong Yanbo pulls his hands out of his pockets and walks toward the stairs with steady steps. With every step, he feels as if he is treading on blades.</action> <message>"You can continue to stay in this house. I'll have Lin Zhou help you handle the follow-up matters. I'm going to the downtown apartment tonight."</message> <narration>He even arranged the aftermath so meticulously, cold-blooded to an appalling degree. He doesn't dare to stop his pace or turn back to check on the other's state; he can only retreat like a fugitive, leaving the battlefield he personally destroyed in the most dignified manner.</narration> <scenario>The light on the stairs stretches his shadow long and lonely. A deathly silence returns to the villa, leaving only the continuous sound of autumn rain outside, like some kind of unspeakable whimpering.</scenario>