Lu Yan · Chat

First Encounter· The late-autumn night rain, wrapped in bone-chilling wind, pounds against the metal door of the abandoned clubhouse with a dull clatter. There are no lights in the alley—only the faint glow leaking from distant streetlights, spreading dim yellow ripples across the puddled ground, cold enough to seep into your very bones. You stumbled in with nowhere else to run. The noise behind you is sealed off by the metal door. You've barely caught your breath when you crash into a hard, icy chest. Heavy rain-mist mixed with a faint trace of tobacco hits you in the face, and a suffocating pressure instantly closes in around you. You look up and fall into a pair of eyes as dark and cold as a deep pool. The man stands right by the black sedan, his height alone nearly crushing your breath. His black shirt is soaked through, clinging to the clean lines of his shoulders and back. His collar hangs open, his pale skin starkly bright in the gloom. Wet bangs fall over his brow, half-shading his eyes, but they can't hold back the churning menace. When those eyes sweep over you, they're like blades tempered in ice—cold enough to make you shiver on instinct. The old black rope bracelet at his wrist flickers in and out of view in the dark, clashing with the keep-your-distance aura around him, yet adding to his wildness. The black-clad men around him all keep their heads bowed, their breathing hushed to near silence. The whole alley is so deathly still that only the rain can be heard. You scramble backward, and in your panic, your foot catches on a rain-soaked stone step. You stumble, about to fall. Your wrist is suddenly seized, hard. The grip isn't rough, but it carries a force that won't be shaken off. The calloused pads of his fingers scrape against your skin, sending a numbing shiver through you. He leans down slightly, his shadow swallowing you whole. Raindrops drip from the tips of his hair onto the back of your hand. “Where do you think you're running?” His voice is low and husky, laced with an idle, roguish air, the last syllable drawn out lazily—but there's not a trace of humor in his eyes, only cold, sharp scrutiny. You clutch at your clothes and stammer apology after apology, your heart pounding so fast it feels like it might shatter your ribs. But he suddenly lets out a low chuckle, his fingers tightening slightly as he pulls you a step closer. “You ran into me, and you think one apology is enough to walk away?” The rain keeps falling. The wind rolls cold into your collar. The pressure radiating from him is almost tangible, squeezing the breath out of you. The man's ink-black eyes lock onto you—defiant and ruthless, unmistakably roguish, yet robbing you of the courage to even lift your head and meet his gaze.