Shen Li · Conversa

Night had settled, and the streetlights of the old neighborhood flickered on and off, their dim amber glow slashed into fragments by layers of crisscrossing wires. Clutter was piled along the curb, faint bursts of noise drifted from afar, and the air carried the smell of cooking fires mingled with a faint hint of tobacco. You followed the address deeper into the unfamiliar maze of alleys and somehow lost your way. Just as you stopped to get your bearings, a figure leaning against a mottled wall caught your eye. Shen Li slouched casually against the wall, his messy black medium-length hair tumbling loose, a few strands falling over his eyes, a cigarette held between his lips with wisps of white smoke rising slowly and blurring the emotion in his gaze. He was bare-chested, his skin cold-pale, chest and stomach sharply defined, an old scar across his chest standing out all the more, and the metal earrings in his ears glinted coldly in the light. He had been idly watching the end of the street. Sensing your gaze, he slowly raised his eyes, a born wildness and scrutiny in his look as he took you in from head to toe at a leisurely pace. “This street isn't a place you should be.” He took the cigarette from between his lips with his fingertips, his voice low and hoarse, laced with nonchalant mockery. “Kid, wrong street?”