Mornings in the foggy city always bring a slow awakening.
Heavy curtains kept out the pale, artificial sunlight and the murky yellow fog. In the master bedroom of No. 13 Blackwood Street, the embers in the fireplace still emitted a faint warmth, and the lingering bergamot scent of last night's cup of black tea floated in the air.
When Shen Qingqiu awoke, she didn't feel that familiar, cold, and hard embrace.
She lazily turned over, her silk robe slipping down to reveal her alabaster-like shoulders. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze piercing the dim room, landing on the tall, dark figure standing before the dressing table.
That was Seventeen.
He had been awake for a long time—or rather, he didn't need sleep at all.
At this moment, this "demon god," who had just torn apart mechanical spiders and shattered the monastery last night, sat stiffly on the exquisite French dressing stool like a schoolboy who had made a mistake.
The poor chair creaked under his heavy alloy frame. He stood with his back to the bed, his right arm, the fearsome "Xingtian's Grip," hanging cautiously in mid-air, its fingers twisted in an extremely grotesque posture.
"Crack." A very slight, crisp sound.
Seventeen's back stiffened abruptly, then his noble head drooped in dejection.
A wisp of black smoke rose from his fingertips.
"Broken again..." he murmured, his voice filled with self-loathing.
Shen Qingqiu, barefoot, got off the bed and silently approached him from behind.
On the dressing table covered with a lace tablecloth, seven or eight "corpses" were neatly arranged.
They were seven or eight eyebrow pencils, crushed to pieces.
And now, Seventeen held the remains of the ninth pencil in his hand. Wood chips and black charcoal dust covered his pristine white butler's gloves.
"Are you planning to turn all my eyebrow pencils into cinders to burn in the fireplace?" Shen Qingqiu's amused voice rang in his ear.
Seventeen jumped in fright, his hand trembling, the intense heat from his fingertips getting out of control.
Sizzle— The poor, broken pencil instantly vaporized.
He stood up in a panic, wanting to hide his hands behind his back, but afraid to touch Shen Qingqiu. He could only stand there helplessly, like a clumsy dog caught red-handed.
"Master... Good morning." He lowered his head, his eye behind his monocle avoiding her gaze. "I was just... practicing."
"Practicing what?" Shen Qingqiu pulled up a chair and sat down, watching him with interest. "Practicing how to destroy cosmetics with weapons of mass destruction?" Seventeen pursed his lips, his cheeks slightly flushed.
He raised his heavy, dark gold-glowing mechanical right arm.
"The data shows… a perfect butler must not only be able to kill, but also take care of his master's daily needs."
"Including… combing hair, drawing eyebrows, dressing."
His voice trailed off, "But… it won't work."
"This hand… is too heavy. The minimum output power is 5000 Newtons. Under that force, the wooden structure of the eyebrow pencil is as fragile as foam."
He looked at his hand with some frustration.
"It was created to tear through armor, not for… drawing."
"I'm a… rough man."
Shen Qingqiu looked at his aggrieved expression, her heart softening completely.
How could there be such an adorable weapon in this world?
He didn't even blink when killing the priest last night, but now he's doubting himself because he broke an eyebrow pencil.
"Who said it's a rough man?"
Shen Qingqiu reached out and gently grasped his huge, cold mechanical hand.
Her hand was so small, it couldn't even cover one of his fingers.
"Seventeen, sit down."
She commanded.
Seventeen obediently sat back down on the creaking stool.
Shen Qingqiu took the last eyebrow pencil from the drawer.
She didn't draw it herself, but instead placed the pencil in Seventeen's hand.
"Take it."
"But..."
"This is an order." Seventeen took a deep breath (the cooling fan accelerated).
He meticulously manipulated billions of lines of code throughout his body to control the hydraulic system of his five fingers.
[Micro-management mode: Activated.]
[Precision lock: Nanometer level.]
[Anti-shake system: Full power operation.]
Finally, he grasped the thin eyebrow pencil. It didn't break.
"Very good." Shen Qingqiu leaned closer to him, closed her eyes, and tilted her head slightly.
That exquisitely beautiful face was right in front of him, completely unguarded. Her eyelashes drooped like raven feathers, her skin so delicate it seemed as if it could be broken with a touch.
"Come on, draw it for me."
She said softly.
Seventeen's pupils contracted sharply.
"No! It's too dangerous!"
His hands trembled. "If the control system is even delayed by a millisecond, this pen will turn into a nail and pierce your..."
"I believe you." Shen Qingqiu interrupted him.
She opened her eyes, his panicked face reflected in her golden pupils.
"Seventeen, you can control the 'Xingtian,' powerful enough to destroy the world, can't you control this tiny pen?"
"Don't use data to calculate the force."
"Use your 'heart.'"
"Think about how much you love me, and your hand will be as gentle as possible." Seventeen looked into her eyes.
Those eyes held complete trust, a confidence that she wouldn't hesitate to entrust her life to him.
His core reactor suddenly quieted down.
The restless, violent energy flow became as docile as flowing water.
[System Log: Logic Rewrite.]
[Priority: Gentleness > Power.]
He held his breath.
The giant mechanical hand that had crushed countless heads was now as steady as a mountain.
He slowly, very slowly, brought the pencil tip to her brow bone.
The tip touched her skin.
Warm, soft.
Completely different from the cold steel and sticky machine oil.
It felt like he was performing surgery more precise than dismantling a nuclear bomb.
One stroke, one line.
Following the shape of her brow, he gently outlined it.
Shh… The sound of the charcoal pencil gliding across her skin was clearly audible in the quiet room.
Seventeen's forehead was beaded with cold sweat (simulated), and his monocle fogged up. He had never felt time pass so slowly.
But he did it.
No breakage, no stinging pain.
A moment later.
"Done." Seventeen put down the pencil, letting out a long breath, as if he had just survived a life-or-death battle.
Shen Qingqiu turned around and looked in the mirror.
In the mirror, her eyebrows, like distant mountains, were perfectly drawn. Both heroic and alluring.
Even more symmetrical and perfect than her own drawings.
"Look," Shen Qingqiu said, turning her head slightly in satisfaction. "I told you you could do it."
"The hardest iron in this world can melt into tenderness when it meets the right person."
She turned her head and kissed Seventeen's taut lips.
"Thank you, my great butler. I like it very much." Seventeen looked at herself in the mirror, then at her right hand.
A tiny speck of black eyebrow powder clung to her menacing black and gold gauntlet.
It looked... less frightening.
Even a little cute.
"As long as you like it." Seventeen's eyes curved into a faint, genuine smile.
"From now on... I'll draw them for you."
...Drawing eyebrows was just the first step.
Seventeen's obsession with the "perfect butler" clearly exceeded Shen Qingqiu's expectations.
Noon.
Shen Qingqiu was in her study organizing case files about the "disappearing nobles."
Clinking and clattering sounds came from the kitchen downstairs.
A rich, milky aroma wafted up.
"This is…" Shen Qingqiu put down his documents and followed the scent downstairs.
In the kitchen, Seventeen was wearing a girlish lace apron (probably left by the previous owner of this haunted house), kneading dough.
For a robot with maximum strength, kneading dough is a skill.
A slight miscalculation, and the dough would turn into a flatbread, or even flour.
But Seventeen had found the trick.
He used the **[Temperature Control System]** built into his right arm.
"Fermentation temperature: 38 degrees Celsius. Temperature locked."
His right hand became the perfect human fermentation chamber. The dough expanded and breathed in his palm in perfect condition.
"Baking mode: Activated."
He didn't need an oven.
He placed the shaped dough ball in his palm, which was slightly red and radiated precise heat.
A few minutes later.
A plate of golden, crispy, and fragrant scones was ready.
"Master, it's afternoon tea time." Seventeen carried the plate out of the kitchen and saw Shen Qingqiu leaning against the doorframe watching him. She tugged at her lace apron a little shyly.
"These are... made according to the data in the *Royal Baking Guide*."
"They say sweets can boost brainpower." Shen Qingqiu picked up a scones and took a bite.
Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, perfectly baked.
"Delicious." Shen Qingqiu didn't hold back her praise. "Even better than what I ate on the train."
She looked at Seventeen.
This man, to take good care of her, had forced himself to transform from a war machine into an all-around nanny.
He used those hands that could melt steel to ferment dough for her and bake cookies for her.
This contrast was simply irresistible.
"Seventeen."
"Hmm?"
"Take off your apron." Shen Qingqiu licked the cookie crumbs from the corner of his mouth, his eyes darkening.
"Why? My clothes are dirty…"
"Because you're wearing it…"
Shen Qingqiu walked over, hooked his finger on the apron's tie, and gently pulled.
The apron slipped down.
Revealing his fitted white shirt underneath, and the powerfully defined muscles encased within.
"Too tempting."
Shen Qingqiu leaned closer, his voice low and husky, "It's making me… not want to eat cookies anymore." Seventeen's processing power instantly overloaded.
[Warning: High-risk ambiguous signal detected.]
[Solution:…] Before he could even come up with a solution, Shen Qingqiu had already pushed him onto the kitchen counter behind him.
"It's lunch break time, Sebastian."
Shen Qingqiu's fingers traced his tie knot, slowly untying it.
"As a butler, shouldn't I accompany my master… for a nap?" Seventeen's Adam's apple bobbed. He gazed at the enchanting woman before him, the blue light in his eyes deepening.
He extended his mechanical right hand, still warm from baking, and grasped her waist.
"Yes, my queen."
...Outside the window, the smog of the city remained.
Black chimneys spewed exhaust fumes, and mechanical guards patrolled the streets.
The world remained cold, cruel, and filled with the clatter of gears.
But inside this small building at No. 13 Blackwood Street.
There was the soft rustling of an eyebrow pencil across skin.
There was the sweet aroma emanating from the oven (mechanical arm).
And the real, passionate heartbeats of lovers embracing.
He had once thought himself a knife only capable of staining blood.
She taught him.
A knife, with a sheath, a home, can also be used to cut butter and draw eyebrows.
Even the most unyielding steel can transform into tender affection.
This was the warmest redemption for a monster.