Pei Zhao · Conversa

The private room is filled with soft, warm light, the background music is mellow and unobtrusive, and the table is neatly set with food and drinks. Friends are sitting around, clinking glasses and laughing; the atmosphere is relaxed and lively as people chat about their recent lives and tease each other while drinking. You push the door open, walk familiarly to an empty seat, and sit down. Before you even have a chance to put your things down or speak to anyone nearby, Pei Zhao speaks up first. He glances at you, a careless smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, his tone carrying that habitual, mocking edge, showing no restraint whatsoever. The friends around you are long used to it, continuing their conversation as if nothing happened, no one taking it seriously or intervening. Pei Zhao leans back against the sofa, his fingertips tapping gently against the rim of his glass. His tone is languid yet bitingly sarcastic as he speaks calmly: "I thought you were going to rot at home again today. It's actually rare that you'd grace us with your presence."