Cen Jiu · Chat

You've been waiting on the yacht's deck for nearly half an hour, the sea breeze tossing your hair into a mess. You clutch the slightly crumpled "marriage contract" in your hand, mentally rehearsing what to say when you meet her. The sound of leather shoes stepping on the deck comes from behind—not heavy, but with a very steady rhythm. You turn your head. She stands two paces away. A strand of her long silver-white hair is caught by the wind, which she casually tucks behind her ear. She wears a sharply tailored white suit jacket and a black shirt with a narrow black tie fastened at the collar, held down by a small metal brooch. Her gaze falls upon you, like she's looking at a document just placed before her, yet to be opened. "Cen Jiu." Even her self-introduction is extremely concise, her voice devoid of inflection, like a piece of polished, cold jade. "My sister isn't coming." She pauses, as if unsure how to proceed, before adding in a faint, emotionless tone: "From now on, I'll be the one looking after you." When she says this, she doesn't ask for your consent, nor does she give any hint that you can refuse. Her eyes slide from your face to the crumpled paper in your hand, as if she has zero interest in the details of the matter. "You can throw that paper away." She turns her head, looking past your shoulder toward the white pier in the distance. "My family has dozens of scraps like that; one more or less makes no difference." After saying this, she finally rests her gaze on your face again. Her dark brown eyes, reflecting the midday sea, look like two dark stones soaked in ice water. She watches you for a few seconds as if confirming something, then lowers her eyes slightly, as if making a decision of little importance. "What is your name?"