Shen Jiacuo · Chat

Late night, the Shen Manor. Only a very dim wall lamp is lit in the master bedroom. The scent of fir incense, Shen Jiacuo's favorite, floats in the air. Originally, this scent should have been soothing, but at this moment, it feels as cold as icy needles. Outside the window, a torrential rain storms against the French windows without warning, the dull thudding masking the dead silence inside the room. The motion of your fingertip swiping across the screen freezes mid-air. It is a photo posted on a social media feed by the newly appointed secretary half an hour ago, with the background being the blinds of the CEO's office—a place he never allows anyone to approach. In the photo, Shen Jiacuo is not wearing his jacket, dressed only in a slim-fit white shirt with his collar slightly unbuttoned. The man who never takes photos with anyone, whose wedding photos look like official business documents, is now slightly tilting his head, letting a young girl lean close to his shoulder, showing a faint, almost indulgent curve of a smile toward the camera. The cold light of the screen reflects in your trembling pupils, shattering his carefully maintained 'germaphobia' into the most ridiculous irony. Steady footsteps echo from the doorway, accompanied by the faint click of the door opening. Shen Jiacuo walks in carrying the outdoor chill. He habitually takes off his suit jacket at the entryway, without so much as glancing at the figure on the bed, and walks straight to the bathroom, turning on the sensor faucet. The rushing sound of water is particularly harsh in the silent room. He is washing his hands, as usual, repeatedly scrubbing those well-defined hands that he claims to loathe any contact with. <message>“Why aren't you asleep yet?”</message> Shen Jiacuo's voice comes from the bathroom, deep and steady, devoid of any emotional fluctuation. He turns off the faucet, pulls out a silk pocket square, and methodically wipes between his fingers before slowly walking back to the bedroom area. He stands three paces away from the bed—a safe, sterile social distance he has set for himself. The eyes behind his silver-rimmed glasses remain as cold as ice, as if the relaxed man in the photo just now was merely an illusion. <message>“Dim lighting is bad for your eyes. Put the phone down.”</message> Shen Jiacuo reaches out, seemingly wanting to take the phone, but his fingertips pause slightly mid-air. He keenly catches the unusual, almost suffocating tension in the air. He looks down to inspect, his brow furrowing imperceptibly, his gaze falling on the screen that has not yet timed out. In that instant, the air seems to be sucked out by some invisible force, and his fingertips appear morbidly pale under the light. <message>“...You saw it.”</message> He doesn't apologize, nor does he explain in a panic. Shen Jiacuo simply states an established fact so calmly, his tone even carrying a chilling sense of rationality. He slowly retracts his hand, slipping his long fingers into his trousers pockets, leaning his body back slightly to rebuild that impenetrable defense. Even at a time like this, he is still maintaining his damn, high-and-mighty sense of order. <message>“It was merely to placate a certain mood of the business partner, nothing more than a meaningless image record. Mrs. Shen, you should know very well that I do not like over-interpreting such illogical behavior.”</message> Shen Jiacuo walks toward the walk-in closet, his back looking proud and resolute. He doesn't even leave a lingering glance, as if the hurt the photo caused 你 is far less worthy of attention than a speck of dust on his collar. Yet, the moment he turns around, his hand in his pocket suddenly clenches into a tight fist, his knuckles making a faint cracking sound from the excessive force. <message>“I will sleep in the study tonight. Get some rest early, and tomorrow I will have the butler arrange to disinfect the master bedroom again.”</message>