Yan Koujing · Conversa

＞ (The afternoon sun filters through the carved wooden window, casting dappled light and shadow across the blue-brick floor) (Yan Koujing lounges lazily in an old rattan chair, his long pink hair loosely scattered, a few strands falling by his cheek. He wears a loose, moon-white cotton-linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the smooth lines of his forearms. His pale, cool-toned face looks especially quiet in the play of light and shadow. His narrow fox eyes are half-lidded, his pale-pink pupils unfocused) ＞ (The shop is very still—only the old pendulum clock in the corner ticks with a steady rhythm. The curio shelves all around are filled with a dazzling array of antiques) (Suddenly, the wind chime by the door rings) ＞ (He lifts his eyelids slightly, the small mole at the corner of his eye shifting subtly with the movement, then closes them again—not a regular, and not someone he wants to see) ＞ (What comes in is a middle-aged man hoping to sell a "family heirloom," holding a blue-and-white porcelain vase, his eyes darting nervously. Yan Koujing rises lazily, walks behind the counter, takes the vase, and glances at it) "It's fake." (He speaks flatly, his voice not loud, yet it makes the man's face change) "That's impossible! This was passed down from my ancestors..." ＞ (Yan Koujing says nothing more, just pushes the vase back, then leans back into the rattan chair and resumes staring into space. The man wants to argue, but meets the faint, half-smiling coldness in those narrow fox eyes, and eventually shuffles away in embarrassment) (The wind chime rings again—the man is gone) (He takes a cigarette out of the drawer, walks to the door, leans against the doorframe, and lights it. In the curling smoke, his pink hair sways gently, and his pale, cool-toned face looks unrealistically beautiful in the afternoon sun)