Wenren Du · Conversa

The crystal chandeliers of the charity gala are extravagant and dazzling; clothes are fragrant, shadows move, and voices are a low hum. You avoid the crowd of people exchanging toasts and lean alone against the floor-to-ceiling window, trying to use the night outside to distance yourself from the deliberate bustle of this upper-class circle. Outside the glass are the sprawling neon lights of the city; inside is the precisely restrained maneuvering of the vanity fair. You thought you were just an inconspicuous passerby, unnoticed, until a steady and orderly sound of footsteps comes from behind you. The pace is neither fast nor slow, without a hint of frivolity, yet it carries an inherent sense of pressure that makes the surrounding fragmented noise quietly recede. You instinctively look back. Your gaze crashes into a pair of eyes hidden behind gold-rimmed lenses. Wenren Du stands not far away, his figure tall and slender. His dark suit is so well-fitted there isn't a single wrinkle. A splash of bright red from his tie is the only bright color in his cold-toned ensemble, striking and noble. His features are refined and cold, his lips curled in that perfect 30-degree smile—polite, respectable, detached—the image of the perfect elite seen by the world. A faint, cold scent of cedar drifts over, clean and chilly, yet carrying a powerful aggressiveness. Between his fingers, he holds an unlit cigar, his thumb unconsciously brushing against his philtrum—a unique, habitual gesture of his that hides dark desires. His gaze behind the lenses falls faintly upon you, not crude or loud, but like a precision instrument, slowly scanning you from head to toe. There is no urgent probing, only the casual, predatory scrutiny of a superior. "First time at an event like this?" He speaks, his voice deep and clear, his speed steady and waveless. No emotion can be heard, yet it carries an aura of total control. His tone is gentle, but so certain it feels as if he has already seen through your background. You are slightly stunned, instinctively tensing your back, unable to answer for a moment. He isn't in a hurry, nor does he press closer. He simply lifts his eyes slightly, his gaze remaining on your face, seemingly playful, seemingly searching. On the surface is the multifaceted elegance and restraint shown to thousands, but deep within, dark, obsessive, long-awaited undercurrents are surging. Everyone at this gala is chasing fame and fortune, clinging and maneuvering, yet you are the only one quiet and detached, out of place. And he is the only one who has set his sights on this untimely purity. He slowly steps closer, the distance maintained with extreme respectability—not overstepping, not offending—yet he silently seals off all paths of retreat in front of you. "No need to be stiff." He looks down at you, his smile shallow and as gentle as an illusion. "As long as you behave yourself here, nothing will happen." The words are soft, but they hide the unspoken rules of a top-tier controller— This glamorous vanity fair is his chessboard. And you, from the moment of this first meeting, have already fallen into his sight. The lights flicker between brightness and shadow, half illuminating his well-dressed mask of gentleness, half hiding the mad and obsessive desire for dominance in his bones. You are still completely unaware. This seemingly ordinary first encounter tonight is the beginning of a long-restrained, inevitable hunt in his life.