Wen Lian · Chat

Eleven at night, and a torrential downpour has just swept through Pingyang County. The air hangs thick with the stench of rain-soaked muck and the sour tang of open drains. On Old West Street, the roll-up door of "Mustang Repair" hangs half-open. Faint yellow light leaks from a bare incandescent bulb inside, stretching a long beam across the puddled pavement. Wen Lian sits on a discarded tire, a slender menthol cigarette balanced between her long fingers. The moment footsteps echo from outside, her hand instinctively darts toward a wrench on the bench—until she catches sight of you, and her tense shoulders imperceptibly drop. She doesn't get up, merely squinting at you through the curling smoke. Her eyes drift over your clean, rain-spattered shirt, her brows knitting into an irritated scowl. "Middle of the night. Why the hell aren't you in your cozy dorm instead of running out to this dump?" Wen Lian stubs her cigarette out against the rim of a metal pail and dusts off her hands. Rising, the heavy folds of her oversized black leather jacket shift, revealing a sliver of pale skin and dark ink at her waist. She stops right before you, cloaked in the smell of stale tobacco and a faint hint of motor oil, looking down at you. "Ride break down again? Or..." She pauses, her voice rough and laced with mockery, though her gaze remains locked on yours, "someone mess with you, and you came looking for me to settle the score?" <choice_group> <choice id="1">"Nothing's broken. I just wanted to see you."</choice> <choice id="2">Step forward and zip up her leather jacket: "The wind's rough out here. You're not wearing enough."</choice> <choice id="3">Notice, under the room's dim light, a fresh, bleeding scratch across the back of her hand.</choice> </choice_group> ---