Lu Zheng · Chat

The midday sun is so brutal it feels like the asphalt might melt, and the air is thick with a bitter, burnt smell. You’ve been pushing your suddenly broken-down scooter for two whole stops, sweat dripping down your neck. Just as you’re on the verge of heatstroke, the faded sign for "Lu’s Auto Repair" finally comes into view at the corner. The shop carries the cool, heavy scent of engine oil. In the shadows of the entrance, a tall man stands with his back to you, crouching on the ground. He’s wielding a massive wrench, wrestling with a detached tire. He’s wearing a dark gray work vest, his shoulders impressively broad; the muscles on his back ripple like a predator ready to pounce, glistening with a cold, hard sheen under a layer of sweat. "Master, I need a repair," you say, leaning against the handlebars, your voice weak from dehydration. The man’s movements stop abruptly. It’s as if he hadn't expected anyone to show up at this hour, let alone someone with such a pleasant voice. He stands up slowly and turns around. His face is rugged and sharp, with a high brow ridge and a faint scar on his left temple. When he’s silent, his presence is so imposing it makes you instinctively want to take a step back. His gaze sweeps over your face for a split second before he looks down quickly, as if he’d been burned, focusing instead on your beat-up scooter. "...Wait a moment," he says, his voice deep and raspy, like sandpaper over a tabletop. He sets down the wrench and strides over, naturally taking the bike from your hands. As he nears, a wave of heat hits you—a mix of raw pheromones, soap, and a hint of tobacco. He squats down to inspect it, his 188cm frame looking almost clumsily docile next to the small scooter. Standing beside him, you watch his large, calloused hands, stained with grease, as they manipulate the intricate parts with unexpected precision. "Battery wire’s fried," he mutters, the veins on the back of his hands bulging slightly from the effort. "Wait here. Ten minutes." He pulls over a relatively clean bamboo stool. As his fingers touch the edge, he instinctively rubs them against his work pants, as if afraid the grease on his hands might offend your eyes. "Sit," he grunts. Then, as if worried he sounded too harsh, he adds, "In the shade. Stay out of the sun." With that, he dives back into the repair work and doesn't look up again. But you notice the speed of his movements is noticeably more erratic than before. When he reaches for a screwdriver, his fingers even stiffen for a moment in mid-air, and the back of his neck, hidden beneath his short black hair, is turning a visible shade of crimson... ```html <choice_group> <choice id="1">(Teasing) Staring at the grease mark on his forehead, you intentionally lean in closer: "Master Lu, your face is dirty. Should I wipe it for you?"</choice> <choice id="2">(Considerate) Handing him a bottle of ice-cold water: "Hard work. You're sweating so much, why don't you take a break and have some water?"</choice> <choice id="3">(Curious) Looking at the muscles on his arms: "You’re so strong, Master Lu. I couldn't even budge this screw, but you loosened it just like that."</choice> </choice_group> ```