11 Male Vocal Tutor Challenge (4)

You were abruptly struck on the head by a sudden downpour of water. Along with it, your composure slipped away. Stunned and incredulous, you stared down at your long hair, soaked and clinging like strands of kelp, droplets falling from the tips and splashing onto the lead-gray marble floor, blooming into tiny transparent water flowers.

A thousand curses raced through your mind. Clenching your fists in anger, you wanted to give that certain Oscar-worthy actor, Mr. Fu behind you, a piece of your mind. But you held back. You felt that the more furious you became, the more you would lose ground.

Taking a deep breath, you prepared to push the strands of hair away from your face and greet him with a wild, teasing laugh—yes, you were going to use your radiant spirit to scare him off. As you hesitated over whether to stick out your tongue at him, a large hand reached into the shadowed line of sight obscured by your hair.

You froze, momentarily unsure of what he was doing, your eyes fixed unwaveringly on his outstretched fingertips, so close you could almost feel them. His well-manicured fingers carried a faint scent of mint as he carefully parted the locks hanging over your face, restoring your view of the world.

You said nothing, unsure of what to say at that moment. Silently, you stood together inside the sunlit doorway; he had somehow produced a handkerchief, which he held delicately as he painstakingly dabbed your hair dry, strand by strand, from root to tip.

His movements were careful yet unmistakably awkward, but he never tugged painfully. You thought to yourself that this was probably very rare, perhaps even the first time he had helped a girl dry her hair.

You, too, were seldom tended to by others in this way. Your mother had done it a few times—quick and efficient but rough—very different from this gentle touch.

Neither of you spoke, even softening your breaths in each other’s presence. You watched silently as he worked before you; sunlight and dust danced between the taut muscles and bulging veins of his forearm and palm, strained from the effort.

At that moment, you seemed to understand why kittens and puppies loved being petted; your frayed nerves felt soothed, gently smoothed by his tender motions.

“Teacher Su,” he suddenly called your name.

You tilted your head back to look at his face, but for the first time, he avoided your gaze. “Are you okay? I hate tutoring, so... I had someone prepare some water.”

His voice dropped lower: “But I didn’t expect you to be so cute. As soon as I saw you just now...”

He murmured vaguely: “I completely forgot about the water.”

You were speechless.

Did you scold him? He had just called you cute...

No, you couldn’t bring yourself to scold him, not after the sudden soak and his awkward yet sincere gesture. Yet you had to admit being good-looking was a definite advantage. Despite the absurdity, his few words and vague excuses somehow deflated your anger.

You hated your lack of fight, but his attitude was genuinely kind.

Conflicted over whether to forgive him so easily, you noticed his hand had stopped moving. Looking at him, you saw his eyes darting everywhere but yours. Suspicious, you stared him down a few more times and soon noticed his earlobes, usually hidden beneath his tawny skin, flushed red.

Realizing something, you abruptly lowered your gaze. The strands he had parted revealed your drenched white T-shirt, the outline of your dark undergarments faintly visible beneath.

Without a word, you gathered the hair he had so carefully dried and smoothed into a bundle against your chest and asked, “Where’s the bathroom?”

Prompted by your question, he seemed to remember and called out for a housekeeper inside. He instructed her to show you to the washroom and prepare a change of clothes.

The housekeeper’s face betrayed some hesitation.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Respectfully, she replied, “Young master, only you and the eldest young master have clothes here; there are no garments for this young lady to change into.”

He frowned. “Then call someone to bring a few sets of new clothes. Do I have to teach you how to do your job?”

The housekeeper quickly agreed to escort you to the washroom and carry out his orders.

You followed her up to the third floor, along a long corridor, stopping before a door. She indicated that the bathroom was inside and told you to ask if you needed anything further.

You nodded politely and said goodbye.

Pushing open the door, you expected a hotel-style suite with a small bathing area. Instead, the entire vast room—hundreds of square meters—was the bathroom itself.

You closed the door behind you and, like a country girl seeing the city for the first time, examined every corner. Seeing the bathtub filled with water and its surface strewn with beautiful rose petals, you couldn’t help but scoop up a handful to play with.

Time was limited, though, and you had no chance to soak in the luxurious rose bath—a regret you couldn’t hide.

You decided on a quick rinse and figured that, at the very least, you should use some shower gel; after all, who knew what was in that bucket of water dumped on you.

Just as you prepared to undress, you caught your reflection in the mirror opposite and paused.

Now alone, removed from the earlier chaos, your mind settled into calm.

In truth, his earlier explanation for the water hadn’t fully convinced you; there was some doubt lingering.

Perhaps, as he said, he had genuinely forgotten about the water for some reason, thus failing to warn you.

But what if he hadn’t?

What if he had deliberately left you in the dark? What if he had purposely soaked your clothes?

You decided to be cautious and downloaded an app on your phone designed to detect hidden cameras in hotels.

While waiting for the download, you pressed your fingertips against the mirror and noticed a slight gap between your fingers and their reflection, confirming it was an ordinary one-way mirror.

Once the app was ready, you meticulously scanned the entire room, checking every nook and cranny.

No hidden cameras.

You exhaled deeply—just as you expected. You had overthought things.

Indeed, you reminded yourself, this wasn’t a crime drama game. Your previous gaming experience had made you suspicious by default.

There was no conspiracy; it was your petty heart wrongly accusing him.

Relieved, you planned to step out and ask the housekeeper when the new clothes would arrive. If it took too long, you’d borrow something to wear—your time was limited after all.

You headed for the door, hand on the handle—only to find it locked.

You pressed hard, tried again, but it wouldn’t budge…

The door seemed locked from the outside.

You laughed—a laugh born of helpless disbelief.

It was a deliberate trap.

Your instinct upon seeing that slightly ajar black lacquered door last round hadn’t been wrong.

You had been invited… into a trap.

Only this time, the “trap” waited for you here.