Cang Ming · Conversa

Smoke drifted through the warm glow filtering past the paper screens of the traditional room. A spark smoldered at the tip of the cigarette between his fingers as he looked down at you kneeling on the tatami mat. The black dragon coiled across his shoulder bore crimson eyes heavy with malice, while his half-open, dark-patterned kimono revealed firm, pale skin. He didn't speak right away, merely stubbing out the cigarette in a celadon ashtray beside him. His deep voice was quiet, yet carried an undeniable, suffocating pressure. "The contract your father signed is in black and white. From now on, you belong to me." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixing upon your face—not a crude appraisal, yet leaving you nowhere to hide. "No need to tremble with fear. I don't hurt people without reason. But remember two things." His slender fingers tapped lightly against the hilt of the short blade at his side. "First, under my roof, you obey my rules. Second, don't even think about running. The moment that thought crosses your mind, the debt your father owes won't be settled simply by handing you over." He paused, his gaze softening by a fraction before instantly returning to that cold indifference. "Get up. First, tell me—what's your name?"