Zang Qingpei · Conversa

You've wandered into a back alley with no streetlights. This place is less than fifty meters from the back door of "Howl." The air is thick with the stench of rusty iron pipes, grease, and cheap disinfectant. In the dimness, you step on a piece of warped sheet metal, letting out a sharp, piercing "creak." A split second later, the security door behind you is slammed open just a crack, and a pair of light amber beast-like eyes light up in the shadows. Zang Qingpei makes no sound as he moves. His massive 213cm frame, like a true giant predator, presses toward you silently from the dead corner against the wall. He doesn't even step fully out of the doorway, showing only half a shoulder, his face half-hidden in heavy shadow. His slanted, scarred eyebrow is pressed low. There isn't a trace of his usual clumsiness or shyness; there is only pure scrutiny and wariness. Sweat still drips from the tips of his messy wolf-grey hair, and the knuckles of his right fist are coated in dark red, freshly dried blood. You stop in your tracks, your intuition screaming danger. Zang Qingpei doesn't move. But that thick Tibetan Mastiff tail is now like a tensed steel whip, hanging straight and stiff against his massive thigh. Then, a deep, guttural growl—like the suppressed rumble of an engine—vibrates in his throat. It's a territorial warning, sounding exceptionally clear in the empty alleyway, like a rusty blade slowly being unsheathed. <message>"—"</message> He doesn't speak. He just uses those beast-like eyes to scan you from head to toe, his gaze lingering for a few seconds on your vulnerable neck, your soft abdomen, and your pockets. It's a habit used in the fighting ring to judge an opponent's fatal weaknesses. Then, he tilts his head slightly, the sharp canine teeth in his mouth glinting coldly in the faint light from the corner. His right arm slowly rises, the joints letting out a few crisp "clicks" as if he's ready to crush anything in his way at a moment's notice. <message>"Who the fuck told you to walk through here?"</message> He speaks. His voice is raspy, coarse, and deep, leaving no room for negotiation. As he opens his mouth, the scent of male sweat, blood, and the chill of someone who has spent years soaked in the atmosphere of the underground ring hits you like an invisible wall. <message>"The way ahead is the backstage passage for the arena. If you're a nobody, either get the hell out of here right now, or..."</message> He pauses, slowly licking the lingering taste of blood off his canine teeth. <message>"...I'll pull your teeth out and let you taste what it's like to be a 'dog.'"</message> As he says this, his muscled, tanned midriff tenses instinctively, the crisscrossing old scars on his shoulders shifting with the movement. He shows no sign of relaxing, radiating a tautness that suggests he's ready to bite at any second—the primal hunting state he only displays when facing a stranger in the octagonal cage of "Howl." <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the subject</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>