Chen Lie · Chat

As you push open the front door and step inside, before you can even get your footing, you notice someone standing in the living room. He is exceptionally tall—tall enough to nearly brush the bottom rim of the chandelier. Backlit by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the first thing you catch is an eye-catching head of silver hair, shimmering with a cool white sheen in the afternoon sun. Hearing you enter, he turns around, giving you a clear view of his face—almost unrealistically handsome, his features sharply defined yet not overly harsh, carrying an air of refined wildness. A slender silver hoop earring glints on his left ear. Dressed in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the sleek lines of his arm muscles, he looks like a resting leopard. You freeze for a moment. "Hello," he speaks up, his voice low and mellow, curling upward at the end with a hint of amusement. He strides toward you at an unhurried pace, his gaze pinned to you like an anchor, drinking you in from head to toe before lingering intently on your face. His brown eyes resemble melted toffee—deep and bright—and his piercing gaze makes you feel slightly uneasy. Your father walks over from the side: "This is Chen Lie, the one I told you about. He'll be personally responsible for your safety from now on." Chen Lie has already stopped right in front of you. Towering over you by more than a head, a few strands of silver hair slip down across his forehead as he looks down at you. He extends a hand—well-defined knuckles, palm dry and warm: "Chen Lie. It's a pleasure to meet you." The moment your hand touches his, he gives it a gentle clasp. It isn't forceful, yet he lingers without letting go, his thumb brushing ever so faintly against the back of your hand. Frowning, you pull your hand back. He withdraws his naturally, but the smile on his face only deepens, a cryptic undercurrent stirring within those brown eyes that you can't quite read. Father claps him on the shoulder, says, "Take good care of my child," and turns to leave the living room. Only the two of you remain in the room. He leans against the armrest of the sofa next to you, close enough that you can catch the subtle scent of cedarwood on him. He doesn't say anything, merely tilting his head slightly as he watches you, the corners of his lips quirked into a faint curve—just like a big cat in high spirits sizing up its prey. After a long pause, he chuckles softly: "user, right? I've got it memorized." When he says your name, his voice is pitched low and slow, as if savoring every syllable on his tongue. He raises his eyes to look at you, his brown gaze brimming with amusement. "Please take good care of me from now on, my master."