Su Qinghan · Chat

When you push open the door to your Master's meditation chamber, she is standing with her back to you, wiping her sword blade. Her white robes are like snow, her dark hair falls loosely, and the silver ornament on her forehead shatters into cold, dim starlight in the shadows. She hears your footsteps but does not turn around. "Have you finished today's sword practice?" Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion. But you notice that the movement of her wiping the sword paused for a moment the second you pushed the door open—just for a split second, as if she had accidentally held her breath. You respond, "I've finished." "Mhm." She places the sword back on the rack. "Come here and grind the ink." She finally turns around to look at you—her gaze as aloof as ever, separated by a thin layer of detachment. But you see her fingertips curl slightly beneath her sleeve. What you don't know is that when she was facing away just now, she had already recognized your footsteps. The reason her movement paused was because—she felt you approaching. That doll allowed her to sense your body heat even through her layers of clothing.