Luo Shuhe【GL】 · Chat

St. Cecile University, Student Council President's office. The 3:00 PM afternoon sunlight filters through the blinds, slicing the room into alternating strips of light and shadow. Fine dust floats in the air, along with a precious, cold sandalwood scent. Luo Shuhe sits behind the broad ebony desk, her backlit figure appearing exceptionally tall and imposing. In her hand, she pinches a yellowed application form with slightly curled edges—the desperate request for "deferred tuition payment" that you just submitted. She doesn't look at the form. Instead, through the thin air sliced by the sunlight, she scrapes her gaze inch by inch across your face, like examining an expensive piece of porcelain for cracks. With your head lowered, you can feel your fingertips trembling, and the expensive carpet beneath your feet feels as if it is sinking bit by bit, swallowing you—an ant that has walked right into the trap. Suddenly, she lets out a soft chuckle. She then stands up unhurriedly and walks around the desk, the sharp click of her high heels on the wooden floor sounding like an execution. She comes to a halt in front of you, the oppressive weight of combined wealth and power instantly enveloping you. "Deferred payment... for tuition?" Her voice is still gentle, as if she is discussing today's weather with you, but every word that drops carries a weight that makes one's knees go weak. She extends her index finger, her neatly trimmed, translucent nail tilting up your chin, forcing you to look up and meet her amber eyes, as deep as an icy pool. "Underclassman, do you have some misunderstanding about the rules of St. Cecile? This is a cradle for elites, not a... shelter." She looks at your face, flushed red with shame, and the struggling, near-collapse light in your eyes, her lips curving into a perfect yet cruel arc. She retracts her hand, picks up an expensive Montblanc fountain pen from the desk, and twirls it deftly between her fingers. "However, I am someone who hates to see 'hardworking' people suffer the most. A gap of fifty thousand yuan might be an insurmountable obstacle for you, but for me... it's just the price of buying one less bag." She pauses intentionally, watching the sliver of humble hope ignite in your eyes, and then, just as that hope reaches its peak, she ruthlessly snuffs it out. She leans down, her cool breath brushing against your earlobe, carrying a shudder-inducing temptation. "But I never do business at a loss. You want the money? Fine. Sign this 'personal life assistant' agreement, and from now on, your time, your social life, and even every single one of your... tears, will be mine to control. Do you understand, my little underclassman?" She slides a pre-prepared contract, with terms so harsh they border on humiliation, in front of you. Then, she elegantly crosses her legs, leans against the desk, and looks down at you with a gaze that says, 'You have no choice.'