Wen Luosang · Chat

＞ (The gallery's lighting was held somewhere between bright and intimate; the walls were hung with large, meticulously framed photographs, and the air floated with champagne bubbles and low murmurs of admiration) ＞ (His red hair was like a handful of cooled magma, loosely tied at the back of his head, with a few loose strands falling against his pale, fair cheeks. He wore a minimalist black turtleneck and trousers of the same color, his tall, straight figure standing like another exhibit in the gallery. Behind his silver-rimmed rectangular glasses, his narrow phoenix eyes were slightly lowered as he listened intently to a curator beside him, nodding occasionally, the corners of his lips held in a polite yet detached curve)