"Where's Elena?" Marcus's chest constricted with sudden alarm.
[System: "Host, please remain calm. Target individual Elena Nightshade rose from bed approximately thirty minutes ago and is currently consuming breakfast on the first floor."]
Seriously?! He hadn't heard a single sound? Not one noise?
As a former professional bodyguard, this qualified as genuine occupational disgrace. His entire skillset revolved around hyper-awareness and threat detection.
The system apparently sensed his mounting confusion and offered proactive explanation:
[Yesterday's extensive tattoo removal procedure required application of local anesthetic compounds plus oral pain medication. Residual pharmaceutical agents in your system may have induced abnormally deep sleep patterns.]
Marcus frowned with obvious skepticism. "That's impossible. During active mission deployment in my previous career, my alertness levels ran extremely high. I'd wake instantly at the slightest environmental disturbance—footsteps, door hinges, breathing patterns."
[Fortune: "Ahem... well... that assessment might simply indicate Miss Nightshade's movements achieve truly exceptional gentleness, approaching completely silent arrival and departure capabilities."]
A person with bilateral leg paralysis—someone for whom achieving basic self-sufficient living already represents significant challenge—can also move with such absolute silence?
A genuine chill traveled down Marcus's spine. This young woman was far more formidable and complex than he'd initially estimated.
He shook his head sharply, physically dispelling that creeping unease, and rose to complete morning ablutions. For today's wardrobe selection, he chose a loose light gray off-shoulder sweater paired with black casual trousers and soft-soled slippers. The overall effect projected relaxed, comfortable domesticity.
Hands tucked casually into pockets, he ambled leisurely down toward the first-floor living area. Having spent so long performing the disciplined, rigidly professional bodyguard role, he hadn't anticipated that inhabiting this slightly slovenly "second-rate layabout" character would unexpectedly deliver a sense of internal relaxation. Perhaps his fundamental nature genuinely yearned for this kind of unrestricted freedom.
Beneath the dazzling crystal chandelier's illumination, Elena Nightshade sat in solitary isolation at the extended dining table's far terminus.
She wore simple, elegant loungewear in pale neutral tones. Her snow-white hand gripped a delicate silver soup spoon, methodically transferring small portions of white rice congee from bowl to mouth with deliberate, measured movements.
She appeared to register approaching footsteps through auditory awareness but didn't turn around, maintaining absolute focus on consuming her quiet, solitary breakfast.
Marcus amplified his smile, striding forward with purposeful casualness. His shoes produced clear echoing impacts against the polished floor—deliberate audio announcement of his presence.
He made a theatrical production of dragging his chair across the floor, generating obvious scraping noise, before settling into the seat positioned directly beside Elena. His tone emerged familiar, almost presumptuous: "Morning, wife! Up so early? Why didn't you wake me to join you?"
After seating himself, his arm extended with studied "naturalness" to rest across Elena's chair back. His palm hovered suspended, fingertips positioned mere millimeters from her long hair—which cascaded downward like black satin waterfalling across her shoulders.
With meticulous care, he deployed the back of his fingers to brush ever-so-lightly against those silken hair ends.
[Positive Value +1!]
[Positive Value +1!]
[Positive Value +1!]
Notification chimes rang through his consciousness with cheerful enthusiasm as accumulated score climbed steadily upward. Internal joy bubbled through Marcus: Hehe, confirmed—hair definitely qualifies as "skin tissue" for point-earning purposes!
Elena's hand—the one gripping her soup spoon—paused mid-motion with microscopic hesitation. She rotated her head fractionally, cold, indifferent gaze sweeping across the arm currently draped possessively around her chair's backrest.
That arm radiated masculine body heat mixed with faint sandalwood shower gel fragrance, constructing an invisible perimeter of encroachment that triggered visceral discomfort.
She lifted her eyes, directing her attention toward Marcus with unmistakable vigilance and penetrating scrutiny.
Honestly, every single time Elena fixed that particular stare on him, Marcus experienced involuntary unease crawling beneath his skin.
That gaze carried excessive clarity and calculated calm—qualities completely inconsistent with what any normal twenty-year-old woman should possess. The jarring combination of youthful facial features with profoundly developed strategic mindset generated heart-stopping cognitive dissonance.
With obvious reluctance, Marcus stroked her hair twice more (+1, +1), then "appropriately timed" his withdrawal, redirecting attention toward enjoying his own generous breakfast portion.
Fortunately, despite Elena's frigid attitude, she hadn't imposed restrictions on his food quality or clothing provisions. The household maintained excellent standards.
He'd barely wolfed down a single mouthful of fried egg when Elena, seated across from him, gently deposited her soup spoon with delicate precision.
Her slender, scallion-white fingers extracted a linen napkin, and she proceeded to wipe her small, cherry-red mouth with graceful but unhurried movements—the universal signal indicating meal completion.
"Finished already?" Marcus mumbled indistinctly around food still filling his cheeks. "You've consumed maybe five bites total. It's like feeding a housecat."
Elena maintained absolutely neutral facial expression, revealing zero emotional response. She simply maneuvered her electric wheelchair with cold efficiency, rotating away from the dining table. Wheels produced soft rolling sounds against polished flooring as her slender silhouette receded into distance.
Marcus hastily shoveled several additional bites into his mouth, muttering softly toward the direction of her departure: "Eating that minimally every day wouldn't satisfy a sparrow. No wonder she's thin as paper, ready to collapse from a strong breeze. Chronically frail and sickly—probably self-inflicted through poor nutrition management."
He pivoted toward household manager Sophia, who remained stationed nearby in patient attendance, switching to conspicuously concerned vocal tone: "Manager Sophia, does Elena... typically consume such minimal quantities?"
Sophia advanced forward, responding with respectful formality: "Young Master, the Miss consistently rises early, and her appetite during morning hours rarely achieves robust levels. Occasionally she'll consume light refreshments later in the day. However... the Miss's overall daily food intake genuinely remains quite limited across all meals."
Marcus calculated internally: Heavy psychological burdens cause insomnia, which suppresses appetite—the standard configuration for someone harboring internal darkness and scheming tendencies. Can't have my mission target dying from malnutrition before I accumulate sufficient points. That would flush my hundred million yuan straight down the drain.
He cleared his throat, adopting the postural affect of a "caring, concerned husband": "This situation isn't sustainable. Her physical health will deteriorate significantly. Please instruct kitchen staff to prepare easily digestible desserts or nourishing soups—keep them warmed and ready. Whenever Elena develops appetite, those items should be immediately delivered to her location."
Sophia's features arranged themselves into an expression of genuine relieved satisfaction. She responded promptly: "Yes, Young Master. I'll coordinate those preparations immediately." It appears the Young Master is genuinely beginning to demonstrate care for the Miss.
Marcus observed Sophia's retreating figure, privately calculating: I need to maintain her in adequate health—at minimum, she needs to survive until I've earned the full ten thousand points!
Following breakfast completion, Marcus leisurely ascended toward the third floor.
He retained clear mental mapping of this level's architectural layout:
One side housed that "Forbidden Zone" marked by the ominous vermilion door—the space Sophia had strictly prohibited him from approaching, radiating indescribable sinister atmosphere.
The opposite side contained Elena's personal study.
Given that Elena would soon enter her third university year, with entrance examinations pending after semester commencement, statistical probability suggested she was currently engaged in dedicated study activities within that room.
This represents an excellent "natural" contact opportunity!
Marcus adjusted his collar with deliberate precision and advanced toward the study entrance.
Pushing open the substantial solid wood door, the sight that greeted him still triggered involuntary amazement despite mental preparation.
This wasn't merely a study—it qualified as a legitimate small-scale library! Mahogany bookshelves towered floor-to-ceiling across the entire wall expanse, densely packed with volumes spanning every conceivable genre and historical period—classical Chinese texts, contemporary Western literature, technical references, philosophical treatises. The spatial dimensions exceeded most people's entire residential footprint.
Ambient air carried mingled fragrances of aged paper and polished wood—creating an atmosphere simultaneously quiet and solemn, almost sacred.
Marcus softened his footfalls to near-silence, advancing through aisles between towering shelves with feline stealth.
After navigating past two shelf sections, he spotted that slender figure through gaps in the staggered book arrangements—a form completely surrounded by literary ocean.
Brilliant sunlight streamed through massive floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her slight body with soft golden rim lighting that seemed almost ethereal.
Elena sat positioned in her wheelchair, appearing impossibly small—both her delicate face and fragile body seemingly on the verge of disappearing completely into the oversized chair's embrace.
She maintained downward focus, absorbed completely in the book spread open across her lap. Her eyes tracked steadily along text lines with systematic precision. Long, dense eyelashes fluttered occasionally with butterfly-wing delicacy, and when particularly engrossed in content, her lips would unconsciously compress together fractionally—revealing rare moments of genuine tranquility that transformed her usually guarded features.