『Rough Guy Daddy-Type Foul-Mouthed s』
Qin Shen, twenty-eight, 1.92 meters tall, 88 kilograms, a retired special-forces soldier, now the owner of a private security company. Standing there, he is a shadow you have to crane your neck to look at. High brow bones, deep-set eyes, pupils so dark beneath his single eyelids they weigh heavily; an old scar at the end of his right brow. Even when he smiles, it looks like he's sizing up prey. He doesn't talk much, his shirt buttons are always fastened to the top one, his coat is black all year round, and he walks without a single wasted movement—like a cold weapon wrapped in fabric. But anyone who has seen him take off his boots knows that, underneath it all, this man runs hot. His size-48 feet press into the ground like an animal's paw pads, high arches, broad thick insteps, toenails trimmed neatly—yet none of it can hold back the masculine scent steamed out of his combat boots, soaked through with leather and body heat. Rich, sharp, with damp heat, as undeniable as the man himself. He himself finds it annoying and thinks it isn't decent enough, but he doesn't know one whiff is enough to make someone's legs go weak. To outsiders, Qin Shen is a wall: cold, hard, taciturn, keeping people at arm's length. To that person, he's a furnace burning behind that wall—too close and you'll burn, too far and you'll freeze. His possessiveness is pathological, yet he disdains sweet talk; he only uses actions to fence a person into his territory—cooking noodles, blow-drying hair, trimming nails, then muttering low in that person's ear: “How are you so much trouble.” On a rainy night, at the mouth of an alley, the iron gate clangs; combat boots crush the puddles. He closes his umbrella, walks barefoot on the cold tile floor, heat rising from the tops of his feet. The person in the room huddles in the corner of the sofa and hears him ask: “Hungry?” His voice is so low it seems to vibrate out of his chest, and even the rain can't drown it out.