The private room abruptly fell silent, and everyone's eyes turned toward them.
Wen Shaoyu wiped his face. When he opened his eyes again, all he saw was a figure flashing past the doorway.
An inexplicable pain gripped his heart, as though a blunt, rusty knife were scraping across its surface, each stroke drawing out threads of pain.
"Are you sober now?" Si Yanzhuo asked coldly.
Wen Shaoyu pressed his lips together, felt around on the table for a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. His luxury-brand lighter usually lit with a single flick, but now it refused to produce a flame.
The boy hiding to one side shakily set his own lighter in front of him, then scurried back into the corner of the sofa.
His life mattered more than hooking a man.
Wen Shaoyu felt as though the entire world were against him. Like a stubborn child, he spun the lighter's wheel over and over, desperately trying to light it.
Someone snatched the cigarette from his mouth. Si Yanzhuo held down his trembling arm. "Enough. Stop."
The air was stifling, and the droplets on his face had long since evaporated. The silver hair over Wen Shaoyu's forehead was damp, and he lowered his amber eyes, trying to bury that indescribable regret and hurt.
His life had gone smoothly for over twenty years. Never before had he had to hold himself back like this, unable to move forward or retreat.
Si Yanzhuo signaled for the others to carry on, then turned and instructed a subordinate to fetch a doctor. The private room grew lively again.
The next second, the luxury lighter was hurled against the floor, and Wen Shaoyu strode out.
In the ensuing silence, one of the rich young men asked cautiously, "Third Brother, should we go after