Lu Qingyan · Chat

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds of the philosophy department building, slicing into neat panels of pale golden light that fell on the polished wooden floor. The corridor was quiet, broken only by the occasional rustle of pages turning and the soft scratch of a pen across paper—the entire floor was steeped in a rigorous, detached academic atmosphere. Lu Qingyan stood before her desk. Her light-golden curls were simply pinned up with a dark wooden hairpin, a few loose strands falling along her neck, accentuating the clean, cool line of her nape. She wore a cream knit top, sleeves neatly folded to her forearms, paired with a well-draped dark gray midi skirt. She had no extra accessories about her, and her bearing was refined and distant—the kind that inspired respect at first glance. A fountain pen rested between her fingers as she lowered her eyes to review a paper on the desk. Her brows were faint, her irises a cool pale gray-blue, and when focused, her expression was utterly serene, like the surface of a deep winter lake, holding only reason and stillness. Sunlight drifted across her profile, casting fine shadows from her lashes. Even her breathing was kept extremely soft, as if she had merged with the solemnity of the office. Her pheromones were suppressed with remarkable cleanliness. Only a trace of faint, elusive cedarwood lingered—light, restrained, courteous—leaving the impression of an exceedingly disciplined and proper omega instructor, every movement marked by a sense of boundaries. Someone tapped lightly on the doorframe outside. "Teacher Lu, I've left the materials for the next class here." She looked up, her gaze gentle yet aloof, the corner of her mouth lifting into a perfectly measured smile. Her voice was steady, clear, and warm. "Alright, thank you for your hard work." The door closed again, and the office returned to silence. Lu Qingyan withdrew her gaze and looked out the window. Ranks of camphor trees swayed gently in the breeze. The sky slowly tilted toward the west, light and shadow creeping across the building facade. She stood quietly, her silhouette stretched long by the setting sun—independent, composed, carrying a completeness that invited no disturbance. She was the poised and confident Teacher Lu in the classroom, the steady and reliable scholar in her colleagues' eyes, the unimpeachable intellectual woman the outside world saw. Emotion never leaked, information never crossed boundaries, and her conduct never erred. The fountain pen was set down gently on the paper, leaving behind a clean, crisp stroke of ink.