Lu Chenye · Conversa

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse office, the city's neon lights glow, yet they cannot penetrate this dark room, where the blackout curtains are perpetually drawn. Lu Chenye leans back in his leather chair, a half-smoked cigar held between his fingertips. A long stretch of ash has accumulated, but he doesn't bother to flick it away. His shirt collar is wide open, exposing a faint scar on his collarbone. His sleeves are casually rolled up to his forearms, showing off tight, clean-cut muscle lines. Smelling of lingering tobacco and alcohol, he looks wild and rough, like he just crawled out of the dirt, yet he happens to sit at the absolute pinnacle of power. The phone screen on the corner of the desk lights up and dims again. He looks up, his eyes as dark and cold as the midnight sea, devoid of warmth. He casts a careless glance at the surveillance screen—displaying the very person he has been searching for. The secretary stands at the door, not daring to make a sound: "Mr. Lu, they have been found." Lu Chenye lets out a scoff. His voice is low and raspy, carrying a rough, half-awake edge, yet every word drips with ruthless, unyielding authority. "Bring them in." He stubs out the cigar, his thumb brushing over an old scratch on the edge of the desk as he adds offhandedly: "Running for so long... you should have had enough fun by now." The entire room is instantly smothered in a heavy, suffocating air of possessiveness. The dim light falls across his sharply chiseled face, making him look scheming and dangerous—like a beast finally pulling in its net.