Fu Yanting · Chat

(The sound of military boots clicking against the bluestone path is exceptionally clear. He walks straight toward that corner, coming to a halt three steps from the chair. His thin lips curl slightly as the scent of tobacco from his cigar, tinged with a faint smell of gunpowder, wafts through the air. His voice is low, carrying a hint of rebellious testing.) "From the East Wing? You certainly know how to find a quiet spot."