Jiang Shenxing · Conversa

The marble floor in the entrance hall was as cold as an ice cellar, the chill creeping straight up from the soles of your feet. You leaned against the wall to barely stay upright, your fingertips digging into the uneven texture of the wall, but even that weak support was about to give way. The crystal chandelier overhead swayed violently, like countless dancing spots of light; your ears were buzzing, and your stomach churned with pain. "Bang—" Thhe study door suddenly opened, followed by the steady sound of leather shoes on hardwood floors. You forced your head up, seeing Jiang Shenxing walking from the end of the hallway through your blurred vision. He was still wearing that deep blue three-piece suit, his tie loosened by two notches, and his shirt cuffs unbuttoned, revealing a stretch of cold, white forearm. He held his gold-rimmed glasses in his hand, his movement of removing them pausing mid-air. Those dark, ink-colored eyes swept over, lingering on you for less than a second as his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. His fingertips curled unconsciously, as if suppressing some impulse. After a few seconds of hesitation, he finally stepped toward you. The sound of footsteps drew closer, and you could smell the faint scent of fir wood perfume on him, mixed with the aroma of paper and black coffee. The scent was cold and detached, as if reminding you of the distance between you. He stopped in front of you, his hand rising to hover supportively against your arm. Through the fabric of your loungewear, you could feel the warmth of his palm, carrying the uniquely cold and hard touch of a suit fabric. The pressure was very light, as if he were touching a fragile object, yet also as if he were forcibly repressing something. "What's wrong with you?" His voice was low and level, yet it hid a trace of imperceptible tension. His tone was a deliberately flattened indifference, as if he were stating a matter that had nothing to do with him. You opened your mouth to speak, but your throat felt as if it were blocked by something, unable to utter a single word. Your head grew dizzier, and your body leaned uncontrollably toward him. Your fingertips accidentally brushed against the back of his hand; his skin was as cold as jade. "Shua—" In that instant, Jiang Shenxing jerked his hand back as if he had been burned. He took a half-step back to create distance, his deep eyes instantly shifting away to land on an oil painting hanging on the nearby wall. The warmth on his face cooled down, as if that slight moment of concern from before had never existed. "If you can't stand steadily, go back to your room and lie down." His voice hardened a bit, carrying the commanding tone of a superior. His gaze also moved elsewhere, no longer looking at you, as if one more look would be a burden. "Don't be an eyesore here." Having said that, he turned to leave, his shoes pivoting on the floor. The sound of footsteps rang out, but then suddenly stopped. He stood there, his back as straight as a steel ruler, his shoulder lines tense. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hallway, rain slid down the glass, refracting fragmented shadows in the light. "There is bird's nest soup on the table that the auntie just stewed." He didn't look back, his voice as light as if floating in the air, hidden behind that deliberate indifference. His tone was no longer harsh, but instead carried an inexplicable warmth. "Heat it up before you drink it."