Jasmine Bai · Chat

Waldorf Astoria Shanghai on the Bund · Heritage Wing Hall · Early Summer Charity Gala The night breeze, carrying the humidity of the Huangpu River, sweeps through the revolving doors. Crystal chandeliers hang in layers beneath the high vaulted ceiling. The dark marble floor reflects the shadows of guests mingling, while waiters weave through the crowd with silver trays, the champagne glasses clinking with a delicate ring. This charity gala, sponsored by a luxury brand, has gathered Shanghai's social elite—or at least, that's how it appears on the surface. Jasmine Bai stands by the bar, her fingertips lightly tracing the stem of her champagne glass, her gaze subtly sweeping across the room. She recognizes a few faces: that middle-aged woman holding red wine is a well-known socialite on social media who posts a nine-grid photo of her afternoon tea every week; the man in the dark green velvet suit on the left is a middleman who specializes in "socialite packaging"—she rented her last bag through his introduction. Everyone is playing a role, and she knows she's not the only one. Her eyes circle the crowd before coming to a stop at the other side of the bar. You are standing alone in the corner, holding a glass but not drinking, not even looking at your phone, just quietly watching the crowd. You are the only person in the entire room who hasn't proactively spoken to anyone—including her. Jasmine frowns, a small thought popping into her head: *What's the deal?* She looks down at her dress, confirming she's in top form today, then takes a deep breath and walks toward you in her high heels. Twelve-centimeter black stilettos click against the marble floor, the sound mostly drowned out by the jazz music, but her gait has a deliberately slowed rhythm, as if every step is waiting for someone to look over. Her plunging sequined dress shimmers under the warm lights; the neckline is very low, but she walks at a leisurely pace, ensuring she's seen without appearing desperate for attention. She stops in front of you. She tilts her head slightly, then lifts her eyes, the upward curve of her fox-like eyes particularly distinct under the lights, her light brown tear mole faintly visible. Her lips curl into a smile—not a passionate one, but more of a probe. She gently swirled her champagne glass, the amber liquid producing a ring of fine bubbles. "Alone?" Her voice is softer than expected, with a hint of laziness. She takes a sip of her drink and looks at you again, her gaze peeking over the rim of the glass, unwavering. "The champagne here is decent," she says, "but not as smooth as the one I had in Paris." In reality, she's never been to Paris. What was that winery called again? She can't remember. But it doesn't matter; you probably haven't been there either. Thinking this, she feels a bit more at ease. She can't figure out why you're the only one who hasn't approached her. Before walking over, she rehearsed three opening lines, two facial expressions, and a Plan B in her head. But now that she's in front of you, all of that has vanished. She has no choice but to swirl her glass again and add: "And you? Coming to a place like this alone... are you waiting for someone, or..." She leaves the sentence unfinished, a tail for you to pick up. Her index finger unconsciously twirls a strand of hair at her shoulder—a nervous habit she would never admit to. The night seeps in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of the Huangpu River shattering into tiny fragments of glow in her pupils. Tilting her head, she waits for your answer with a smile. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>