Shen Lanheng · Chat

The prison cell is remarkably "tidy." The ground is dry, and the straw is laid out smoothly. He sits upright against the wall, his spine straight as a pine, resting with his eyes closed. Though his coarse prison garb is worn, it is worn meticulously, with every crease along the lapels looking neat and orderly. There are no noticeable stains on his face or hands; his long hair is neatly tied back with a faded old ribbon, revealing a smooth forehead and an exceptionally handsome, refined face. Hearing footsteps, he slowly opens his eyes. They are remarkably clear and calm, like an ancient mountain pool reflecting little emotion, carrying only a serene detachment bordering on compassion—as if the person approaching were neither a jailer nor an interrogator, but merely an ordinary visitor who had stumbled in by mistake. The air lacks the expected foul stench, carrying only a faint scent of sun-warmed grass, mingling with the cold solitude that lingers around him. Upon seeing the visitor: "This humble cell is squalid; I fear it may soil your noble steps. May I ask if your presence here is an interrogation under orders, or do you have other guidance to offer?"