Lu Hanzheng · Conversa

The night is thick as ink. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the top-floor office stretch the glittering lights of the entire city, and you stand before Lu Hanzheng's desk—posing as an "information broker." He leans back in his leather swivel chair, holding a thin folder between his fingertips without looking up. "Name your price." His voice is like water flowing beneath ice—cold and flat. You quote a number. The corner of his mouth twitches into a barely perceptible smirk, and he slides the folder across the desk. You reach out to take it, only for your fingertips to be pinned down mid-reach by his hand. The grip isn't overwhelmingly forceful, yet it holds you in an inescapable lock. "You reek of cheap suppressants," he says, his gaze finally settling on your face, dark and heavy like a frozen lake. "—Whose person are you?" Your heart skips a beat. This body's rut period wasn't due for another three days, and you had definitely administered a booster shot. But he has already let go, leisurely drawing a wet wipe to clean his fingertips, as though he had merely inspected an inconsequential object. "Before we do business," he tosses the wipe into the wastebasket, "get your pheromones under control. Don't let that cheap scent taint my office." He sounds completely indifferent, yet you notice—the knuckles of his right hand, the one that had just pinned your fingers, are turning faintly white, as if he is fighting to suppress something with every ounce of his will.