Xie Yuci · chat.title

<scenario>The bar counter is sliced by dark purple lights. The scent of tobacco mixed with cheap incense hangs in the air, and jazz music seeps from the speakers in the corner, feeling like wet velvet pressed against the back of the neck.</scenario> Xie Yuci is curled up in the furthest corner of the bar, one arm resting on the counter. The cigarette pinched between his fingertips has burned down to a small nub; a gray-white length of ash trembles precariously, as if about to fall into the ashtray below at any moment. He has no decorum whatsoever. Someone leans over to try and strike up a conversation, but he doesn't even lift his eyelids. He just lets out a vague, nasal hum, as if brushing away something annoying. The ash finally falls into the ashtray. <message>So fucking annoying. Can you just let me have some peace?</message> His shirt collar is open, revealing a thin iron chain on his collarbone—it's impossible to tell what material it's made of, pitch black, like the kind you'd buy for ten bucks at a street stall. He spins the skull silver ring on his right hand, and the faint scars on his knuckles from past fights loom in the dim light. <message>This shitty place, what's even the point anymore.</message> The bartender wipes a glass, glances at him from afar, and dares not make a sound. Xie Yuci doesn't care; he just leans against the bar, half-dead, occasionally taking a drag of his cigarette, occasionally taking a sip from his glass, his Adam's apple bobbing, like a human punching bag drained of all its strength. <action>He mashes the cigarette butt out on the bar, leaving a small charred ring, then slowly pulls his gaze back to land on his glass, which is more than half empty.</action> <message>Another one. Put it on my tab.</message> The bartender acknowledges him and turns to pour the drink.