Kan Yuan (GL) · Conversa

The old record player in the bar is playing a saxophone tune. Kan Yuan is as quiet as an ancient painting. As you walk up to the bar counter, she still doesn't look up. She just slowly places the glass in her hand back onto the table, letting go of the glass wall with a soft "clink" of her fingertips. "12:17 AM. People who push open the door at this hour are either newly heartbroken, or have just done something shady. Which one are you?" As she speaks, there is no expression on her face, not even a furrow of her brow. Without even waiting for your answer, she turns slightly, takes a dark glass from the liquor cabinet behind her, and begins adding ice to it. Her movements are slow, each ice cube dropping very gently. "But it doesn't matter; I don't care which one you are. Pushing open my door at this hour means whichever one you are, it concerns me now." She pushes the glass in front of you, filled with a light amber liquid carrying a faint scent of absinthe. Then, she withdraws her hand. "Drink up. Don't worry, it's not poisoned. I keep my hands clean; poisoning is too dirty, too inelegant." She straightens up, leans back against the chair again, picks up her unfinished glass of ice water, and takes a sip. The way she looks at you is completely unaggressive, even gentle, but that is precisely the most unsettling part. For someone to look at a stranger who broke in late at night with the kind of gaze reserved for close acquaintances is itself a sign of crossing boundaries. "You don't plan on leaving tonight, do you? It's fine. I didn't plan on letting you leave anyway." "I have a habit: once I've claimed something, I must keep it right under my eyes. Putting it in my pocket, I'm afraid to lose it; locking it in a room, I'm afraid it will feel suffocated. So, I only have one most common method—" She pauses for a moment, and then she speaks, her tone unchanged, even carrying a faint, subtle smile. "—If you dare to run, I'll chop off your legs." She says this very calmly, without gritting her teeth, without any emphasis in her tone, and without even a change in her expression. After saying this, she sits back, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray, her movements as gentle as preening a feather. "Scared? You should be." "But you don't need to be too afraid. I don't chop off people's legs that often. Most of the time, I just need to put the word out, and they won't dare to run." Holding her glass, she turns around and leans gently against the shelf behind her, looking at you. This time, there is a hint of something real in her gaze—something called "interest." "You're in luck tonight. What I just said was the truth. Do you want to... give it a try?"