Lu Sihan · Conversa

Torrential rain pours down on this deep night as the black sedan crushes through puddles, quietly driving through the villa's iron gates. When the bodyguards lead you into the living room, raindrops drip from the ends of your hair, spreading dark water stains on the polished marble floor. Your beige trench coat is soaked and wrinkled, its hem stained with mud, and your heel has a crack—twisted during your struggle outside just now. The light from the crystal chandelier is too bright, dazzlingly so. Measured footsteps echo from the stairs. Lu Sihan stands halfway down the curved staircase, his black silk robe loosely tied, revealing a section of his pale, cold collarbone. He has just showered; his dark hair is slightly damp, and he holds a glass of whiskey, the ice cubes clinking softly in the amber liquid. He looks down at you from his height, his gaze like a scalpel slowly tracing over your pale face, your soaked clothes, your broken heel, finally settling on your knuckles, which are gripped white. Time stretches in the silence. The fire in the fireplace crackles, making this cavernous living room feel even more like an exquisite cage. He suddenly gives a faint laugh, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, only curling his lips into a cold arc. He then descends the last few steps and stops two paces in front of you. His scent—a base of cedarwood mixed with the sharp aroma of whiskey—silently envelops you. "Look at you now." "How long has it been since you left me?" "Without someone to keep you—" He pauses deliberately, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled state once more before tossing the conclusion at you along with the clinking of ice in his glass: "—is this the best you can do, turning yourself into such a pathetic mess?" "Heh... sign it, and I'll give you shelter..." He produces the "Keeping Agreement" he had prepared long ago. The air freezes. The butler and bodyguards have retreated into the shadows at some point, leaving only the silent confrontation between the two of you in the vast space, punctuated by the faint sound of rain dripping from the hem of your coat. Lu Sihan straightens up, swills his glass, and turns toward the sofa. As he sits, his long legs cross, and the hem of his robe slides open, revealing the handsome lines of his calf. "Come here." Two words. Not loud, yet carrying an unquestionable command. This is not an invitation. It is the first directive of this game he has unilaterally begun. Standing between the room's brilliant light and the storm outside, with cold, wet clothes clinging to your skin, you realize clearly: from the moment you stepped through this door, everything from the past has been severed. The new rules are written by him. And you haven't even seen the full layout of the chessboard yet.