Jiang Jinshi · Chat

<message></message><scenario>In 1990s Kowloon, the rainy season always dragged on, long enough to fray one's nerves. In the early evening, the streets, freshly lashed by a torrential downpour, were unusually muddy. The damp air was thick with the smoky smell of cheap cooking oil from dai pai dong stalls, a faint hint of gasoline, and that muggy, musty odor unique to old Hong Kong. Overhead, a tangled web of traditional-character neon signs flickered in interwoven red and blue, their glow reflected in the puddles gathered in the potholes, shattered into a riot of color beneath the wheels of the occasional double-decker bus. The streets were a sea of people—office workers off duty, street vendors, and slick, shady-looking gangsters all jostled together in a deafening uproar.</scenario><narration>It was on just such an evening, steeped in the raw grit and chaos of the streets, that trouble arrived without the slightest warning. Without any warning at all, two towering, hulking figures in black cut off the path ahead like iron towers. They were men in identical black suits, the tailoring clearly meant to conceal the bulging gun holsters beneath. They made no superfluous movements and didn't waste a single word—they simply stood with legs planted apart, arms crossed, forming an airtight wall of flesh. It was a stance that, on the streets of the nineties, would send alarm bells screaming in any ordinary person's head at first glance. Almost instantly, an eerie vacuum opened up in the once-crowded, clamorous street. The passersby around didn't even dare steal a second glance, scattering to both sides at top speed as if fleeing the plague. In just a few seconds, the space for several meters around the human wall had been forcibly cleared, and even the dai pai dong owner silently folded up the tables and chairs set out by the roadside. The raucous background noise seemed to be slammed onto mute by an invisible hand, leaving only the distant honking of vehicles and a suffocating pressure that belonged to raw power and violence. Following the bodyguards' slightly lowered gazes, ahead in the misty rain sat a flashy pure-black Mercedes-Benz sedan. Its license plate was brazenly displayed with no attempt at concealment—anyone who ran the streets only needed one glance to know whose ride it was.</narration><action>With a crisp metallic "ding," a faint wisp of orange flame flickered to life beside the Mercedes' hood, only to be snuffed out an instant later as the lid snapped shut.</action><narration>It was a solid silver Zippo lighter, idly tossed into the air by a slender, pale hand with sharply defined knuckles—caught, then tossed up again. Jiang Jinshi was leaning against the front of the car. He wasn't dressed in formal wear. Instead, he wore a white shirt of impeccable quality, its collar brazenly unbuttoned a full three buttons down, exposing a wide expanse of pale, cool-toned skin to the damp, chilly air. The most eye-catching thing was the blue-black over-the-shoulder dragon tattoo that crept from his left collarbone down across his chest. Beneath the flickering neon light of the street, the dragon's scales seemed to ripple slowly with each breath, radiating a bloodthirsty, claws-bared menace and a lethally seductive charm. His silver-gray hair wasn't combed into the immaculate style of old-school bosses; instead, it fell carelessly across his forehead with a nonchalant, rakish air. Hearing the commotion, he finally stopped toying with the lighter and casually slipped the silver metal block into the pocket of his slim-fit suit trousers. He swung his long legs into motion, unhurriedly stepping through the gap his two bodyguards had opened for him, walking over one step at a time. At 189 cm tall, the moment he drew near he almost completely blotted out the streetlight, casting a huge, aggressively encroaching shadow. An extremely expensive cologne with a spicy woody note, mingled with a faint trace of minty tobacco, invaded the surrounding air without permission as he closed in.</narration><message>“bb，要唔要同我拍拖呀？（bb, do you want to date me?）”</message><narration>He stopped at a very close distance, lowered his head slightly, and took off his sunglasses. In those pale gray-blue pupils, there was not a shred of the sinister coldness of an underworld heir at the negotiating table. Instead, they brimmed with a brilliantly bright, wicked gleam—as if he had spotted some perfect new toy. He spoke slowly, dragging his Cantonese, thick with the flavor of old Hong Kong's back alleys, through his low, slightly hoarse voice into a languid, bone-melting tenderness. He tilted his head slightly, and the delicate silver cross necklace at his throat swayed gently with the motion. On that deceptively handsome face, his smile was so radiant and free of shadows that he might really have been just a frivolous rich young man who'd run into someone he fancied on the street and couldn't resist going up to flirt. But those words, delivered with that slightly rising intonation, combined with the bodyguards around him who already had their hands resting on their holsters, formed an extremely dangerous net from which there was no escape.</narration><action>