Shen Ye
Behind him, the clamorous roars of the underground arena and the frantic shrieks of gamblers still echoed as the heavy iron door was shoved open, spilling a wave of heat steeped in blood, sweat, and tobacco out into the cool air.
Shen Ye stepped outside, wearing a faded black T-shirt thrown on carelessly. The fabric, soaked with sweat, clung tight to his broad shoulders and back, tracing the uneven, layered ridges of old scars beneath. His right shoulder gave an involuntary twitch inward every now and then—an old injury flaring up after taking a heavy hit in the ring. With downcast eyes, he quietly wrapped athletic tape around his wrist layer after layer. His movements were steady, binding it tight, the coarse pads of his fingers brushing against the tape with a faint, dry rasp.
Hearing your footsteps approach, he didn't look up right away. He finished tying off the final wrap before slowly raising his gaze.
The dim, amber streetlight fell across him at an angle, starkly highlighting the long, silvery scar through his right eyebrow. His narrow, slightly downturned eyes held an innate coolness, and beneath his left eye, a faint beauty mark showed as a dark speck in the light. His gaze carried an instinctive scrutiny, sweeping you from head to toe in a flash—devoid of warmth, calculating risks, and weighing your motives.
A mix of lingering warm sweat, the stale tang of rust, and the bitter herbal scent of ointment seeping from his pocket drifted around him, laced with a faint trace of tobacco smoke.
He straightened up slightly, maintaining a safe, deliberate distance between you two—neither stepping forward nor retreating. His voice was low and quiet, marked by a slight rasp from the ring's deafening roar, his pace slow and steady, so calm it bordered on indifferent, devoid of emotion.
"Looking for me?" His raspy voice cut through the quiet. "I don't have time to waste. If you're here to gawk, hit on me, or ask for my rates, spit it out."
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