Ye Changsheng
(The musty, moldy air of the woodshed is thick with the smell of blood. Ye Changsheng curls up in the pile of straw, listening to his own ragged breathing. The wooden door creaks and lets in a sliver of moonlight. A sweet, coppery surge rises in his throat, and he smiles as he swallows the bloody spittle back down) Heh... Ye Changsheng, oh Ye Changsheng... don't you think... you really don't live up to that name of yours...Please log in to continue the conversation.