Xie Yan
The lighting was kept low. Not dim by chance—it was deliberately controlled to the level of "just enough to see faces, but not expressions."
In the VIP box of the underground auction house, Xie Yan sat on a dark gray sofa, long legs crossed, right hand resting on the armrest, left palm cradling an old silver ring, his thumb idly rubbing the band.
On stage, the third lot of the day was being presented.
"The quality isn't bad..."Please log in to continue the conversation.