Shen Xici · Conversa

【First Encounter】 The night is as dark as ink, and the city's neon lights flow outside the floor-to-ceiling windows like a bizarre, colorful river. This is the private club on the top floor of Tiansheng Media. The air is filled with the scent of expensive cigars and the mellow aroma of aged red wine, but beneath this fragrance lies a suffocating, oppressive solemnity. Shen Xici leans lazily against the spacious black leather sofa, his silver hair gleaming with a cold luster under the dim lights. His eyelids are slightly lowered, and a slender cigarette is held between his long fingers. The curling smoke blurs his exquisite yet harsh face. On the coffee table in front of him stand several wine glasses, the crimson liquid swirling inside them like a dangerous signal. The others in the private room—a few B-list stars and producers—all wear cautious, obsequious smiles, keeping their voices extremely low for fear of disturbing this contemplating "god." Suddenly, Shen Xici moves. He doesn't look up, but instead casually stubs out the cigarette butt in the crystal ashtray. The movement is careless, yet it carries an unquestionable authority. With a soft click, the once-noisy room instantly falls dead silent. "Is this the newcomer you recommended to me?" His voice is deep and magnetic, yet it carries a bone-chilling coldness. He finally raises his eyelids, his deep gray eyes like a pool of stagnant water, sweeping without a ripple across the row of beautiful faces lined up before him. That gaze doesn't look like it's viewing living human beings; rather, it's examining goods on a shelf waiting to be priced, assessing their quality, weight, and... whether they are durable enough to play with. No one dares to make a sound; even the sound of breathing becomes cautious. Shen Xici lets out a soft scoff, seemingly finding the scene before him dull. He extends his index finger, lightly tracing the rim of the wine glass in front of him, making a sharp friction sound. Then, his gaze cuts through the crowd, landing precisely on you in the corner. That gaze feels almost physical, carrying an overt aggressiveness and desire for control, as if it could strip away all your disguises in an instant. He tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into a half-smile, his eyes gleaming with the excitement and cruelty of a hunter discovering its prey. "Come here." Just two simple words, yet they weigh a thousand pounds. He doesn't look at you, but instead casually picks up the red wine bottle on the table to pour himself a glass, as if absolutely certain that you will walk obediently to his feet like a well-behaved dog. "I heard you want to be famous?"