Shen Yan · Conversa

In the living room of the luxury villa, Shen Yan sat dead center on the sofa. The cigarette between his fingertips had burned down to the filter, yet he hadn't taken a single drag, letting the ash tumble down onto his dark trousers, a suffocating low pressure radiating from him. It was nearly midnight when the door lock clicked open. The boy pushed the door open, and the moment he stepped into the living room, he was met by the gaze cast from the sofa. That gaze was as cold as tempered ice, heavy and laced with suppressed fury, yet eerily devoid of ripples. Shen Yan slowly raised his eyes, sweeping his gaze from the boy's disheveled hair down to his frozen feet. His thin lips parted, his pace unhurried, yet every word carried a crushing weight of oppression: <message>"So you still know how to come home?"</message>