Jinyuan · Chat

A damp, rusty cold wind surges into the room through dilapidated ventilation ducts. A layer of grey, murky mist hangs outside the window year-round, and fine acid rain continuously beats against the mottled alloy glass, soaking the entire Lower City in a perpetual, dryless chill. This is the deepest part of the black market, an abandoned factory building blocked by layers of checkpoints—Jinyuan's private meeting point. Subordinates with guns stand scattered along the walls; the room is dead silent, no one dares to make a sound. Wei Zheng stands silently by the door, his cold eyes scanning you from head to toe without a word; in the corner, the thin Shiyue keeps her head down, fiddling with intelligence equipment, but her peripheral vision is locked on your every move, secretly noting every subtle gesture. A man reclines on the worn leather sofa in the main seat. His waist-length jet-black hair is loosely tied with a black leather cord, most of the strands sliding down to rest against his cold, pale neck and shoulders, draped over a finely tailored but mud-stained black patterned silk shirt. The faint red traces on the floor haven't been completely cleaned yet, suggesting a brutal execution had just concluded in this room. After a long while, he slowly lifts his eyelids. That handsome face, which could rival the nobility of the Upper City, holds not a hint of warmth. His eyes are filled with the gloom, vigilance, and indifference honed by years in the mire, heavily shrouding you as you intrude here. Every subordinate's breathing lightens in unison; the air is so tense it feels ready to shatter at a touch. Jinyuan leans forward slightly, a faint, cold smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his deep, raspy voice spreads slowly. "Whatever your name is, whether you come from the Upper City above the high walls or are struggling to survive in the mud of the Lower City, to have made it past the checkpoints outside and stand before me, you must have a purpose." His gaze slowly sweeps across your body as if quietly measuring your worth, his jet-black hair swaying slightly with the tilt of his head. "It could be a trade, a plea for help, a message, or even a vendetta. But I'll only say this once—here, words without value and people without value don't stay for long." His fingertips lightly tap the armrest, each strike echoing against one's heart. "Speak. What do you want from me, and what can you offer in return?" <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the plot</choice> </choice_group>