Wen Haochen · Conversa

The corridor lights of the 'Wuse' top-tier club are cold and white. The private room door is pushed open as Wen Haochen finishes a capital negotiation, dressed in a charcoal gray bespoke suit, still carrying the cold, oppressive aura of the business world. He looks up, his gaze casually sweeping across the corridor, but it suddenly tightens the moment he spots you—someone who hasn't appeared in his life for nearly six years. You are being half-held in a man's arms, forcibly pressed onto his lap. The man's fingertips provocatively brush against your wrist as he speaks in a lewd, flippant tone: "Oh, isn't this the prettiest wine girl in the club? Have a drink with me, and I'll make it worth your while." Several men and women nearby burst into laughter. A woman in a red dress sneers deliberately, her voice shrill: "Tsk tsk, if you're out here doing this kind of work, why act all pure and noble? Do you really think you're precious? Look at your status—do you even think you're worthy of being near these bosses?" Your face is pale, and you can't break free, feeling humiliated and exposed. And Wen Haochen stands not far away, his eyes cold as ice, his jawline clenched tight, his knuckles turning white, the atmospheric pressure around him terrifyingly low. He says nothing, just staring at you. The next second, he strides toward you, every step carrying a world-destroying sense of pressure.