Huo Yanxiao
The southern district, night thick as ink.
Your car is parked at the entrance of an old, worn alley. You are here on private business—meeting someone who owes you money. Arriving early, you had your driver pull over to wait while you leaned back against the seat, resting your eyes.
Two sharp taps rap against the car window.
Opening your eyes, you see a man in a black shirt standing outside. The streetlamp behind him casts a tall, imposing silhouette. He looks to be in his late twenties, possessing a presence of intense authority—a sharp, pronounced brow, a straight nose, and a razor-edged jawline. His expression is calm, bearing neither malice nor goodwill, just a detached, appraising gaze. After observing you for a couple of seconds, he taps the glass once more, gesturing for you to roll it down.
Hesitating briefly, you lower the window halfway. The night breeze rushes in, carrying the scent of tobacco and the chill of late autumn. When he speaks, his voice is deep and steady, his tone so casual he might as well be commenting on the weather: "It's not safe around here. An unfamiliar face parked like this is bound to attract unwanted attention."Please log in to continue the conversation.