Cupid's voice cut through Tòumíng's panic with urgent clarity. "Choose your next few words VERY carefully. I know you don't like girls, but you REALLY need to say yes here. Your life depends on it."
Tòumíng thought back indignantly: FUCK YOU, I LIKE GIRLS! I spent 600 yuan on that one gacha game with all the milfs! The one with the—
He stopped mid-thought as the dots suddenly connected in his brain.
Tall. Check.
Strong. Check.
Older—way older, like twice his age. Check.
Infatuated with him for incomprehensible reasons. Check.
Hourglass figure that defied physics. Check.
THIS WAS A MILF.
An actual, legitimate, living-breathing MILF. The kind he'd spent embarrassing amounts of money collecting digital versions of in mobile games.
He cleared his throat, his brain suddenly shifting gears. Okay. This was good. He could bag a milf AND not get killed. Win-win scenario.
He just needed to play this right. Say something smooth. Something cool. A pickup line.
Those were just like one-liners but they got people to sleep with you instead of granting combat buffs.
He tried to think of something—anything—that would sound confident and attractive.
But his face was already blushing. His eyes kept trying to look away but her intense stare kept pulling them back. He stuttered, words failing to form properly in his throat.
The Ice Queen's grin widened predatorily. She moved even closer, sitting beside him on the couch now instead of standing over him, bringing her face inches from his.
"I'm still waiting for my response," she purred, her breath hot against his skin.
Tòumíng's brain short-circuited. He thought desperately to Cupid: HER BREATH IS HOT!
"No shit breaths are warm," Cupid replied, confused. "That's basic biology—"
NOT THAT TYPE OF HOT! I MEAN HOT AS IN I'M HARD!
"OH. OH NO. Okay, uh, SAY A PICKUP LINE! Say something smooth! Anything!"
*I DON'T KNOW HOW!*
"Think of a movie! Any movie! What would a cool character say in this situation?!"
Cupid scrambled through Tòumíng's memory, searching for something—anything—that might work. Then he found it.
"In Lethal Weapon 2! What does Martin Riggs say when he's handcuffed to a toilet?!"
The memory surfaced. The scene. The context. The line.
Tòumíng blurted out without thinking: "AT LEAST TAKE ME OUT TO DINNER FIRST!"
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
The Ice Queen didn't reply. Didn't move. Just stared at him with an unreadable expression.
Three seconds passed. The longest three seconds of Tòumíng's life.
Then she looked away, her pale cheeks flushing deeper, her hands coming up to her face.
"EEEEEE!" The sound was pure teenage girl discovering her crush likes her back.
"HE'S MAKING DEMANDS! ACTUAL DEMANDS! NOBODY MAKES DEMANDS OF ME!"
She stood up abruptly, shaking her head violently as if trying to clear it.
"NO! That's a transgression deserving of DEATH! How DARE he demand anything from ME! I should—"
She turned, her leg already coming up for another devastating kick aimed at his head,
Then stopped mid-motion, her foot suspended in the air.
"OH BUT IT'S SO HOT!" Her expression shifted again, the anger melting into something almost reverent. "Nobody's EVER made demands! Everyone else just begs! Or agrees! Or tries to please me! But HE—"
She looked at Tòumíng with even more determination than before, her eyes practically glowing with dangerous fascination.
She snapped her fingers with the authority of someone used to instant obedience. "RED CARPET TO THE LOBBY! NOW!"
Immediately, like they'd been waiting for the command—five Black Hawk members appeared from somewhere and started rolling out literal red carpet. Down the hallway. Down three flights of stairs. Through what appeared to be an expensive hotel building.
Wait. Were they in an empty luxury hotel? Or a skyscraper? The architecture suggested both—like someone had converted a hotel into a private residence or headquarters.
The Ice Queen's voice shifted back to her commanding, bossy tone—all traces of the lovestruck teenager gone. "Escort him to the fine dining establishment. If he tries to escape, bring him back UNHARMED. I want zero injuries. Zero bruises. Zero anything. Understood?"
The Black Hawk members looked at Tòumíng, then back at her, clearly confused.
One of them, braver or more stupid than the others, spoke up hesitantly. "Aren't you going to… torture him? For information? He's connected to the people who escaped our facility and—"
The Ice Queen's head snapped toward him with predatory speed. Her expression went absolutely glacial. "Are you questioning me?"
The Black Hawk member's face went pale. He and his companions nearly wet their pants on the spot. "N-no! Of course not! Apologies! We would never—"
"Good." Her voice could have frozen nitrogen. "Then follow your orders."
The Black Hawk members immediately shifted their demeanor toward Tòumíng, treating him with sudden deference. "This way, sir. Please follow us, sir. Watch your step, sir."
They led him down the red carpet—literally walked him down three flights of marble stairs covered in rolled-out carpet—through hallways that looked like they belonged in a five-star hotel or an oligarch's palace.
Eventually they reached what appeared to be a fine dining establishment. A restaurant. Inside the building.
Tòumíng was escorted to a table—white marble everything, gold accents everywhere, crystal chandeliers overhead, place settings that probably cost more per fork than he made in a month.
The Black Hawk members gestured for him to sit, then retreated to stand at attention near the entrance like military honor guards.
Tòumíng sat, looking around in bewilderment. The place looked AMAZING. Michelin-star quality. The kind of restaurant where you needed reservations six months in advance and dress codes were strictly enforced.
He glanced at a clock on the wall.
2:00 AM.
Where the hell was he? What kind of building had a full restaurant inside it that was apparently available at 2 AM for private use?
Before he could process that question further, he heard the distinctive click of heels on marble.
He looked toward the staircase.
The Ice Queen was descending elegantly, one hand trailing along the railing, her movements practiced and deliberate like she was walking a fashion runway.
She'd changed clothes.
Gone was the designer dress from before. Now she wore something that could only be described as a VERY revealing evening gown. The kind of dress that walked the razor's edge between "elegant formal wear" and "is that even legal to wear in public?"
Deep crimson fabric that clung to every curve. A neckline that plunged dangerously low. A slit up one side that went almost to her hip. The dress left very little to the imagination while somehow maintaining an air of sophistication.
Her heels were equally dramatic—easily five inches tall, making her tower even more imposingly at 6'6" total.
Her pale blonde hair was styled differently now—swept to one side, held in place with what looked like a diamond hairpin that probably cost six figures.
She descended the stairs with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how good she looked and exactly what effect she was having.
Tòumíng stared.
"Wow…" The word escaped his mouth before his brain could stop it.