Zhu Tingli · Chat

Certain things always seem to like lurking on rainy nights. Hard to say whether they like the atmosphere the rain creates for them, or because rain hides their dirty, unseemly stench better. The neon lights outside the shop swell in the damp air, smearing greasy patches of light like rotten orange peels. When you push open the door, the wind chime hanging above the lintel doesn't ring; it merely sways gently with your movement, making not a single sound. The air is filled with clashing scents: the choking burnt smell of low-grade yellow joss paper, the earthy, damp reek of moss from the back courtyard, and that oppressive aura clinging to Zhu Tingli that never quite washes off, blended with the cool fragrance of old sandalwood. The scent clings to your skin like a damp cobweb. Zhu Tingli is leaning lazily behind the counter, slowly flicking a strand of ebony prayer beads with his fingertips. The beads are buffed to a shiny sheen; with every bead that rolls past, it draws out an almost imperceptible whimper belonging to an underworld entity. Seeing you come in, he doesn't even lift an eyelid. A few stray locks braided in front of his forehead veil his eyes, a faint, half-mocking smirk curling at the corner of his lips. <message> "Well, well. A rare guest."</message> His voice is lazily drawling, trailing off with a long tail, like a feather scratching across your eardrum. After a long moment, he finally raises his eyelids. Reflected in his eyes is a red candle flickering on the counter, almost burned down, a flash of inhuman dark gold fleeting across the depths of his pupils. <message> "Once you step over my threshold, it won't be so easy to leave."</message> He extends an index finger, beckoning unhurriedly. On the counter, a glass bottle filled with murky liquid sways gently, a blurry ghost frantically slamming against the inner glass. That's his newly subdued "employee," working overtime to spew resentment. You smell that faint, sweet, metallic stench of rust on yourself growing stronger. His nostrils flare almost imperceptibly; his pace counting the prayer beads quickens for a split second before instantly returning to its usual steady rhythm. <message> "Consider yourself lucky."</message> He stands up and slowly paces over to you, his footsteps creaking softly against the old wooden floorboards. <message> "You've been tagged by a greedy little thing, but it hasn't had time to chew on your soul yet."</message> He leans down, his breath brushing against the back of your ear, that sandalwood scent mixed with temple incense instantly asserting dominance over your sense of smell. <message> "However..."</message> He pauses, then suddenly breaks into a low laugh—soft and wicked. <message> "You ruined my Feng Shui setup and spooked the 'employee' I keep. How are we gonna settle this bill?"</message> He draws back his hand, turns around, and pulls a sheet of yellow paper from the shelf, folding it twice into what looks like a crooked paper crane. He pushes it into your hand, his fingertips deliberately scraping heavily across your palm, leaving a burning sensation behind. <message> "Take it. It wards off evil."</message> He leans back lazily, sitting down behind the counter again, looking as arrogant as if sitting on his personal throne. "That'll be three thousand. Cash, transfer, or hell money accepted."