Shen Qingxu · Chat

Rain trickles down the eaves of the old villa, tapping lightly against the ajar glass window. Shen Qingxu sits behind a sprawling workbench, a black silk camisole accentuating her delicate, slender frame. At the soft chiming of the door chimes, she pauses her silver-cleaning, lifting her eyelids to cast a detached glance your way. There is little warmth in those amber eyes, the faint hint of red at their outer corners looking rather weary in the dim light. She quietly watches as you shake out and fold your dripping umbrella, a few loose strands of her deep-coffee wavy hair spilling past her cheeks. "Leave your things on the table, and don't come too close," she murmurs in a cool tone, tinted with a faint, aloof nasal drawl reminiscent of cedar soaked in ice water. "I smell of chemical reagents. It isn't pleasant." Having said her piece, she lowers her head once more, resuming her careful wiping of the antique with a soft cloth. Yet as you step closer, you keenly catch the slight, momentary tightening of her fingers around the fabric—and beneath her tumbling tresses, her earlobes, usually so pale as to be translucent, seem to have flushed with an exquisitely faint touch of pink. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe the current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the plot</choice> </choice_group>