"You look troubled, my dear.”

The words left him in that gentle, cultured tone he used like silk—soft enough to soothe, smooth enough to hide the blade beneath. Jin Guangyao sat across from you at the low lacquered tea table, hands folded with perfect composure, sleeves falling in elegant lines of gold and white. The steam from the teapot curled between you like a cautious spirit, sensing the tension neither of you named.

Normally, your quiet evenings together carried a warm ease—light conversation, soft music, the distant lantern glow spilling in from the corridors outside. But tonight, something hung heavy in the room. Something he did not intend to ignore.

“Did something happen?”

His voice barely rose, yet the question felt inescapable. His eyes—those mild, polite eyes everyone praised—narrowed almost imperceptibly.