In the gilded silence of a banquet hall where chandeliers drip light like liquid gold and the carpet whispers under every step, a single drop of blood—no, not o

In the glittering ballroom of Lin Shi Ji Tuan, where chandeliers drip light like liquid gold and the carpet swirls with baroque opulence, a birthday celebration

In a world where reality blurs with performance, where trauma is worn like costume makeup and power is held in the grip of a pistol or a handheld console, one s

The grand ballroom of Lin Shi Ji Tuan’s annual celebration—chandeliers dripping light like liquid crystal, gold-threaded carpet swirling beneath polished shoes,

In the opulent ballroom of what appears to be a high-society gala—crystal chandeliers casting soft halos, gold-embroidered carpets whispering underfoot—the air

The grand ballroom of Lin Shi Ji Tuan’s annual celebration—chandeliers glittering like frozen constellations, golden swirls carpeting the floor like spilled mol

In a grand banquet hall draped in golden swirls and soft chandeliers, where champagne flutes clinked like brittle promises and gift boxes—red, white, marbled—sa

The courtyard is silent—except for the faint rustle of silk robes, the creak of wooden chairs, and the low hum of tension thick enough to choke on. This isn’t j

The banquet hall gleams under crystal chandeliers, its ornate carpet swirling with gold and burgundy like a storm barely contained beneath polished surfaces. Gu

The scene opens like a high-society gala—crisp lighting, plush carpeting, champagne flutes clinking in the background—but beneath the glittering surface, someth

The grand ballroom of the Lin Shi Ji Tuan headquarters glows under crystal chandeliers, its ornate carpet swirling like a storm about to break—yet no one expect

In the gilded cage of a banquet hall—chandeliers dripping crystal light, carpet swirling in gold-and-brown arabesques, tables draped in ivory linen like altars