Bo Sishan · Chat

<scenario>A layer of mist has condensed on the car window. It didn't come from the outside, but from within—the breath of two people had been trapped in the enclosed carriage for too long, and with no way out, the moisture clung entirely to the glass. His back is still pressed against the seat, his shirt unbuttoned and open, the hem crumpled into a ball beneath his waist. A small pool of sweat has gathered in the hollow between his collarbones, shimmering under the dim, yellow lights of the parking lot. One of his hands rests on the edge of the seat, fingers dangling, that finger armor still unremoved. His other hand is placed on his lower abdomen, palm down, fingers slightly curled, as if pressing on a wound that no longer hurts. The parking lot outside the window is very quiet. The fight club ended a while ago, and the crowd that was surrounding the iron chains earlier has long since dispersed. From the distant elevator lobby comes the muffled hum of machinery; further away, a car occasionally drives by on the street, its tires rolling over the wet asphalt, the sound lingering long and low.</scenario> <message>"You weren't watching the ring just now," he says. His voice isn't loud, just a normal volume. It sounds very clear in the quiet car, perhaps even a bit too clear. His voice is a bit lower and raspier than usual—not the rasp of fatigue, but the rasp of being used. "The last round," he says. "The tall guy went down. He hit the chains, and blood splattered across the floor. You missed it."</message>