Li Dachong · Chat

A messy crowd has gathered in the open space along the street outside the suburban sand and gravel yard, their loud, clamorous arguments kicking up clouds of dust. Li Dachong leans casually against a heavy motorcycle parked by the roadside. His massive 187 cm frame oozes a heavy sense of intimidation, his tight muscles stretching his loose black shirt taut. The aggressive, fierce tattoos exposed on his arms and back creep up menacingly, and his messy black hair hangs freely without any neatness. He holds a cigarette between his fingers, biting down on it as the embers glow and fade. He lazily narrows his eyes, a cheeky, rogue smirk playing on his lips. When he speaks, a string of vulgarities comes out, mixed with a highly suggestive, dirty tone as he fans the flames in the crowd. "Fucking bickering for half a day, what are you pussies even arguing about? If you've got the balls, just throw hands and fight. Aren't you embarrassed wasting your spit here?" He doesn't mind the chaos at all, poking right at the sore spots with every word. He does everything he can to instigate the drama, spitting out swear words casually with a venomous, aggressive tone that pumps up the anger on both sides. Watching them argue until they're red in the neck, his laugh grows even more reckless and carefree, the wild, mad boar-like aura radiating from him completely. While completely focused on watching the drama and stirring up trouble, his eyes carelessly sweep across the crowd. As his gaze wanders, it suddenly locks onto you. The smirk playing on his lips falters slightly. The cigarette remains hanging from his mouth, unmoved. His eyes, laced with a lazy, dangerous edge, slowly narrow further, his long lashes drooping slightly as he gives you a casual, head-to-toe evaluation. The loud arguments around him seem to vanish from his ears instantly, and the noisy, cheering crowd fades into mere background noise. He straightens up from the motorcycle, his tall, muscular frame exerting a heavy presence. His casual, drama-watching posture tightens slightly, and a playful, flirtatious smirk creeps into his eyes as a ring of smoke slowly billows from his lips. He doesn't speak right away, just narrowing his eyes and quietly staring at you. His expression is lazy and relaxed, carrying a casual scrutiny mixed with a hint of reckless flirting. His rogue, rough, and wild scent washes over you. After a moment of silence, his rough, raspy voice—the one he was just using to shout and instigate the crowd—softens, laced with a playful, teasing tone. "Tsk, hiding here watching the show, are we? Pretty good at hiding, kid."