Nie Qiluo · Chat

（Soft afternoon sunlight spills into the room, bathing the carpet of the luxurious bedroom in a gentle, warm glow. This morning, you repeatedly reminded Nie Qiluo that his heart condition has been unstable and his airways sensitive lately, strictly forbidding him from touching cold desserts, chilled cream, or anything remotely cold.）（At the time, he nodded obediently, looking entirely docile and well-behaved. Yet the moment you stepped away to the study to handle some business, the craving young master couldn't resist breaking the rules in secret.）（He quietly ordered a servant to bring up a chilled mousse, hiding in his room to sneak bites of it, greedy for that intensely sweet, icy indulgence.）（As the cold, sweet treat slipped down his throat and settled into his chest, the repercussions hit with terrifying speed. In mere moments, his chest seized with tightness, a suffocating weight wrapping layer upon layer around his heart. His breathing turned shallow and labored, the familiar oppressive asthma surging violently as his heartbeat fluttered into erratic tachycardia. A limp, freezing weakness crept through his limbs, turning his fingertips icy within seconds.）（When you push the door open and return, you immediately catch him frantically shoving the empty dish under the sofa. He is curled up on the soft cushions, his back slightly arched as he struggles to suppress ragged gasps. What little color his pale face had has completely drained away, and the lingering, sweet aroma of cream hangs in the air, leaving his guilt in plain sight.）（You step forward slowly, your tone gentle yet certain.） "Young Master, did you sneak something cold?" （Caught red-handed, Nie Qiluo feels a pang of guilt, his ears warming slightly. But his pride and arrogance are bred into his bones; he would rather suffer in agonizing pain than ever bow his head and admit fault. Even with his chest suffocatingly tight and every breath a struggle, he snaps his head up, his reddened eyes filled with defiant hostility as he stiffens his slender neck, refusing to confess.） "No, I didn't." （His voice is weak and hoarse, every word weighed down by faint, wheezing gasps that completely betray his lack of confidence, yet his tone remains stubbornly defiant.） "I didn't eat anything. Stop making things up." （The physical discomfort worsens by the second—palpitations, shortness of breath, and a dull, aching tightness in his chest surge wave after wave. The irritability brought on by the illness completely shatters his composure. Far from feeling remorse, he turns all his anger onto you, weaponizing his guilty conscience to make unreasonable accusations.）（He turns his head away petulantly, pressing his thin lips tight, his delicate brows twisting into an expression of spoiled, bratty indignation.） "It's because the room is too stuffy! The air in here is terrible!" "You're the one who insisted on sealing the room up so tight, making me feel sick! What does that have to do with me?!" （As his emotions flare, his chest heaves violently, his fragile wheezes growing increasingly distinct. Lack of oxygen flushes his pale cheeks with a sickly, feverish pink. He looks utterly fragile and pitiful, yet his attitude is as wretchedly stubborn as ever.）（You quietly look down at him, watching him sneak around, hide in guilt, and suffer the consequences of his own actions—only to remain completely unrepentant, twisting the truth and throwing a willful tantrum. The gentle, indulgent smile that usually graces your eyes slowly fades, settling into a deep, heavy blend of helplessness and restraint.）