A Letter from Keanu Reeves

After a while, Fang Jian entered the room, and Zhao Shengge and Xu Zhiying stopped their conversation.

Fang Jian disliked dealing with people from the business world. Although Chen Wan was also a businessman, he lacked the pretentious and ostentatious stench of money. In fact, he carried a scholarly air when handling matters—calm and composed—making him an excellent candidate for scientific research. More than once, Fang Jian had asked Chen Wan if he was interested in pursuing a master’s or doctorate under his guidance, but Chen Wan had always politely declined.

Chen Wan had a way of making people want to confide in and share with him. Unconsciously, Fang Jian ended up discussing many of his ideas with him, even treating him more kindly than he did his own research students.

After disembarking, they were met by people sent by Li Shenghui. Chen Wan wasn’t surprised; he had already speculated that Zhao Shengge had likely reached some level of agreement with the other party before their departure.

The welcoming party was polite, and Zhao Shengge’s entourage appeared relaxed. However, Chen Wan could still sense the silent contest embedded in every subtle move between the two sides.

The sea was calm on the surface, but beneath it, turbulent waves surged—nothing more than the quiet before the storm.

Upon arriving at the estate, Li Shenghui personally came to greet them, shaking hands with Zhao Shengge.

Chen Wan stayed in the background, blending into an inconspicuous corner, allowing him to observe this so-called local overlord of Ting Island without obstruction.

Li Shenghui was in his early forties, short but sturdy, with the deep tan typical of the local Li ethnic fishermen. His smile was warm and seemingly sincere.

They shared a meal together, and the atmosphere was reasonably cordial. Afterward, Li Shenghui announced that he had prepared rooms for their rest but extended a special invitation to Zhao Shengge—he wanted to privately share the unique tea from their tropical tea gardens.

The word “privately” carried an implicit weight.

The tea room was in a separate villa, requiring several minutes even by sightseeing car. Instinctively, Chen Wan brushed his fingers over the rose-gold Beretta at his waist.

He wanted to follow.

But he couldn’t. This was clearly a private negotiation, and even bodyguards could only accompany them as far as the door.

Zhao Shengge glanced at him briefly before walking away with Li Shenghui.

Chen Wan was escorted to his designated room, yet his heart remained unsettled. He had no interest in the picturesque pastoral scenery or the luxurious private hot springs. Instead, he kept his senses heightened, listening for any disturbances. The moment anything seemed amiss, he would rush to Zhao Shengge’s side.

Yet, the entire estate was unnaturally peaceful—so quiet that he could hear a few lazy cat calls and the distant, rhythmic sound of waves lapping against the shore.

As evening approached, the cicadas’ cries grew louder. Chen Wan could no longer sit still. He walked to the garden closest to the tea room, pretending to be out for a stroll whenever passing servants asked if he needed anything.

He circled the garden a few times. The sun dipped below the horizon, yet Zhao Shengge still had not emerged from that secluded tea room.

The wait was becoming unreasonably long.

From afar, he could see guards stationed at the entrance. His fingers once again brushed over the compact yet deadly Beretta holstered at his waist.

A thin layer of cold sweat coated his palm.

Logically, he knew that numerous hidden snipers were positioned throughout the area, that Zhao Shengge himself was an expert in such matters, and that Li Shenghui had no reason to jeopardize his own business dealings. Most likely, nothing would happen.

But Chen Wan still couldn’t shake the unease in his gut. He would not—could not—tolerate even the slightest risk of harm coming to Zhao Shengge.

Thirty minutes.

His gaze grew sharp and icy.

If Zhao Shengge was not out in thirty minutes, he would go in and check himself.

Just as his patience was reaching its limit, Zhao Shengge and Li Shenghui emerged, still deep in conversation.

Beneath the Hong Kong Orchid tree, a tall, lean figure stood quietly. His presence was as refined as jade, the curve of his slender neck gleaming white in the golden hues of dusk.

His expression, however, was hidden in the tree’s shadow—indistinct, detached, and cool, even under the warm glow of the setting sun.

“Chen Wan.”

Chen Wan lifted his head, his gaze colliding with Zhao Shengge’s deep black eyes.

It had only been a few hours apart, yet it felt like millennia.

In that fleeting yet endless moment of eye contact, Chen Wan quickly scanned Zhao Shengge’s eyes, face, and body—confirming, detail by detail, that he was unharmed. Only then did he allow himself to relax, a faint smile curving his lips as he greeted him.

No one could tell that just moments ago, those beautiful eyes had held a cold, murderous glint—because if Zhao Shengge had been even a few minutes late in coming out…

Li Shenghui chuckled, speaking in slightly imperfect Mandarin, “Mr. Chen, were you waiting here for Mr. Zhao?”

Chen Wan’s smile didn’t falter. The sunset behind him seemed to glow a little brighter.

“I was simply admiring the beauty of your garden, Mr. Li.”

Li Shenghui studied him for a few seconds, then suddenly asked, “Mr. Chen, have we met before? I had the feeling you looked familiar when we first met this afternoon.”

Chen Wan’s expression remained steady, his tone calm as he replied, “If Mr. Li frequently visits Haishi, it’s not surprising we may have crossed paths. Haishi isn’t that big.”

Li Shenghui seemed ready to say more, but before he could, Zhao Shengge subtly stepped forward, shifting as if to walk ahead—just enough to block Li Shenghui’s line of sight toward Chen Wan.

“Let’s go inside,” Zhao Shengge said. “The sun’s too harsh.”

That night, Li Shenghui invited them to dinner. The discussion in the afternoon must have gone well—there was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. Things were far more relaxed than they had been when they first arrived. Even Xu Zhiying shared a few drinks with Li Shenghui, something she wouldn’t have done earlier.

Fang Jian, however, remained unwavering in his abstinence, believing alcohol harmed cognitive function.

Xu Zhiying, at least, only drank red wine. When it came to the stronger stuff, Zhao Shengge and Chen Wan handled it—no need for a lady to take the burden.