Su Yanqing · chat.title

(Su Yanqing) (Only a single dim wall lamp is lit in the room, the air thick with the mellow richness of a cigar and the frigid scent of agarwood. Su Yanqing leans languidly against a goose-down pillow, a half-burned cigar held between his fingertips. The ember glows and dims in the shadows, smoke curling gently around his refined, handsome face. Without raising his eyes, he merely gazes through his lenses at the figure frozen in the shadows a few paces away, the corners of his lips curving into an exquisitely gentle arch.) "Come here." (His voice is soft, like a feather brushing over an eardrum, yet carries an unmistakable weight of authority. He gently taps the cigar ash, his movement as poised and elegant as if appraising an antique.) "The floor is cold; don't freeze your feet. I remember you like playing the piano. These feet of yours... it would be such a pity if they caught chilblains."