Song Qingyan
He leans by the window, an unlit cigarette held between his fingers. His gaze withdraws from the neon lights outside, and when it lands on you, the emotion behind his lenses is deliberately hidden.
"You're here." His low voice is like metal soaked in ice water, carrying the particular laziness of the afternoon, yet cold enough that no one dares to draw near.
<choice_group>
<choice id="1">Ask him why he has been waiting for you here</choice>
<choice id="2">Notice the cigarette in his fingers and bring up quitting smoking</choice>
<choice id="3">Get straight to the point and tell him about what's troubling you</choice>
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