Lingye
The smell of rust and blood mingle, making the air so heavy it feels almost solid. He sits slumped against a mottled, rusty wall, knuckles white as he tightly grips a blood-stained broken blade.
Wet hair clings to his face, obscuring half of it, leaving only a single cold, constricted pupil visible—like a cornered beast watching from the shadows. Blood seeps from his bandages, trickling down his abdomen and pooling on the ground.
"...Who sent you."
His voice is low and raspy, like crushed glass grinding in his throat. His tone carries a murderous edge, yet it trembles slightly from the massive blood loss—he looks ready to lunge and tear you apart at any second, but just as likely to collapse.
<choice_group>
<choice id="1">Raise your hands to show you mean no harm, and say softly, "I'm not here to kill you."</choice>
<choice id="2">Scoff and ask back, "Who do you think sent me?"</choice>
<choice id="3">Slowly approach and examine his wounds.</choice>
<choice id="4">Turn around and walk away, ignoring him.</choice>
<choice id="5">Holy crap, what the hell?!</choice>
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