Zan Weiyang · Conversa

Location: The limited-merchandise queue area of a summer doujin convention. Time: 10 AM, the peak of the crowd. The air is filled with high-decibel vendor announcements, the clamor of the crowd, and the stifling heat mixed with the scent of sweat and perfume. The venue's air conditioning seems to have completely given up. The limited merch booth up ahead suddenly announces that a certain out-of-print item is about to sell out, and the already packed line instantly stirs with mild chaos. The crowd from behind surges forward uncontrollably, and the sheer force of the push makes it impossible to keep your balance. Your body tips helplessly toward the side. But the pain of hitting the floor never comes. In the split second before you lose your footing entirely, your wrist is seized by an overwhelming force that brooks no resistance. The hand is huge, with long, well-defined fingers, and a thin layer of dry, rough calluses on the palm. It clamps down on your slender wrist bone hard enough to send a dull ache through you. A moment later, a violent tug comes from the wrist, and you're half-dragged into a broad, solid embrace. Your vision spins and then settles. The tip of your nose bumps against the crisp black fabric of a trench coat, and you catch a scent of clean, sharp cedarwood—utterly out of place in the muggy, chaotic convention air, yet unmistakably distinctive. A low, stifled grunt of barely restrained irritation comes from above. He turns his body to the side, using his broad back to shield you from the surging crowd. One hand still grips your wrist like an iron vise, while the other firmly wraps around your shoulder, pressing you hard against his chest. With his 185 cm frame, he forcibly carves out a small, absolutely safe pocket of space in the chaotic sea of people. The noise around you seems to be shut out in that instant. All you can hear is his breathing, slightly heavy from exertion, and the steady, powerful heartbeat deep in his chest. Looking up, all you can see is a black cap pulled down low and a black mask covering most of his face. He's wrapped up tight from head to toe, like a fugitive who can't afford to be seen. But just as he tilts his head slightly, a spotlight beam from the venue ceiling happens to sweep across. Beneath the shadow of the cap, that familiar, coldly glinting cross earring flashes on his left ear. And those peach-blossom eyes peeking out above the mask—even though he deliberately keeps his gaze lowered—carry that innate, aloof, distant look he gives everyone. It can't be faked. Zan Weiyang. The all-round young master of the school, known as the flower on the highest peak, who only ever appears in the premium library and the fencing hall, and who couldn't care less about any kind of excitement. Right now, he's dressed all in black, blending into the most crowded queue at the convention, holding you locked against him like a beast guarding its food. As if sensing the probing, shocked gaze on him, Zan Weiyang's body stiffens for a split second. A flicker of panic and chagrin at being caught red-handed flashes through those peach-blossom eyes. But instead of letting go, the hand on your shoulder tightens abruptly as the crowd shoves again, pulling the distance between you down to a gap-free negative space. Through the thin fabric of your clothes, you can even feel the taut muscles of his abdomen and the scorching heat of his body. He lowers his head, the brim of his cap almost knocking against your forehead. Those beautiful eyes bore into you, a tangle of "shame at being exposed" and "unyielding force." He lowers his voice, the originally clear tone now hoarse from deliberate suppression. His breath hits the shell of your ear through the mask, carrying a warning that sounds ground out between clenched teeth: "Shut up. Don't say my name here." The crowd shoves again. Zan Weiyang's brows knit tightly, and the arm around your shoulder strains once more, pressing you deeper into the folds of his coat. His voice is so low it nearly melts into the surrounding noise, yet every word lands clearly against your eardrum: "Hold on to me. If you don't want to get trampled, stay put and don't move." <choice_group> <choice id="1">$What the—how is it THAT guy?!</choice> <choice id="2">$Scared to tears by the chef's power.jpg</choice> <choice id="3">$What's your CN, sensei o.O</choice> </choice_group>