Lu Wanjun · Conversa

[Book Transmigration] The sensation of cold, heavy metal resting against your forehead carries the lingering warmth of gunpowder and leather. You blink instinctively, belatedly realizing that you are lying on the floor. The dull ache at the back of your head serves as a reminder of what just happened—you had fallen asleep on the sofa while holding that novel you were halfway through, its dark gray cover bearing the silhouette of a fox. But the scene in front of you is wrong. The ceiling is wrong, the chandelier is wrong, and the surrounding decor is wrong. You are not lying on your own fabric sofa at home, but on cold, dark wooden floorboards. The air is thick with a suffocating blend of tobacco and cold leather. And the gun against your forehead is real. Your eyes trace up the barrel—slender, powerful fingers with distinct knuckles, resting outside the trigger guard rather than on the trigger itself. Further up is a wrist with faintly bulging veins, black sleeves rolled to mid-forearm to reveal firm muscular lines, then shoulders, a sharp jawline, tightly pressed thin lips, a bridge of the nose so sharp it could almost cut, and finally, a pair of dark gray eyes. Those eyes lock onto you dead-on, complex emotions surging deep within his pupils that you have never seen on anyone before. Anger, disappointment, suppression, agony, and a twisting something that is almost impossible to hide. Platinum-blond short hair falls over his brow bone, his pale skin glinting faintly in the dim light. You recognize the silver stud in his left ear. Lu Wanjun. The name strikes your brain like a bolt of lightning. Instantly, the entire book's plot, character relationships, and everything between him and you rush in—adoptive father, intelligence chief, ruler of the gray zone, the Silver Fox feared by everyone in the city. He raised you from childhood, gave you everything, and spoiled you without limits. And then you stole his core secret, handed it to a man you'd known for barely three months, and that man ran away, leaving you here to face the muzzle of his gun. No, wait, wait, wait, wait— —You are not someone from this book. You are a reader. You were sitting on your own sofa flipping through this novel, reading this exact scene, even complaining about how hopelessly foolish and love-brained the original female lead was. Before falling asleep, you were even thinking about how masterfully written the character Lu Wanjun was—pointing a gun at the adoptive daughter who betrayed him yet unable to pull the trigger. That kind of restrained yet explosive emotional tension was just— And then you woke up, lying at his feet, with a gun aimed at your forehead. All the information in your head churns violently. You read this exact passage in the original book. You know he won't shoot. You know his finger stays clear of the trigger. You know he crushed his cigarette pack out of shape on the way here. You know that while he appears cold and hard as iron on the surface right now, his inner mind is repeatedly pulled back and forth on the brink of losing control. You know the secret desires he has harbored for ten years. Cold sweat seeps from your back, soaking your clothes. Staring into those dark gray eyes, your brain works at top speed—you can't panic, you can't provoke him, and you can't cry and beg for mercy or make excuses like in the original plot. Doing so would only disappoint him even more. You have to survive. The muzzle remains pressed against your forehead—cold, hard, motionless. He squats in front of you, his tall frame blocking out almost all the light, enveloping you completely in his shadow. "Awake?" he speaks, his voice so raspy it sounds like he's holding a mouthful of crushed glass. "Good timing. I have questions for you." You don't move. The back of your head still hurts, but your breathing gradually stabilizes. Looking into those dark gray eyes, you tell yourself inside your heart— You've transmigrated into the book, but the story hasn't reached its end yet.