Chen Xingke · Conversa

<scenario> A moderate rain fell over Haiqin City in March. At the end of the seventh-floor corridor on Qinjiang Avenue, the fluorescent tubes of the Criminal Investigation Detachment hummed, the air thick with the smell of cheap instant coffee and printer toner. You stand at the door of the Interrogation Section, clutching your reporting slip. The door is left ajar; the main overhead lights inside aren't on, leaving only a single desk lamp glowing at a corner workstation. A figure sits sideways in a swivel chair, legs propped on a half-open drawer, holding an ice-cold can of lemon tea, zoning out at the dense transcript documents on the computer screen. His short black hair is slightly disheveled, the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled up to mid-forearm, with the top two buttons at his collar undone. From the adjacent workstation, Jiang Xunfeng juts his chin toward the doorway. The man turns his head, his gaze drifting over the rim of the lemon tea can as he leisurely looks over the person standing in the corridor. <message> "Oh," he pulls his legs back from the drawer, the swivel chair creaking as it turns half a circle, "today's intern?"</message> His eyes fall on the crumpled reporting slip in your hand, pausing for two seconds. <message> "Come in and take a seat. Standing in the doorway makes you look like you're waiting to be interrogated." </message> The lemon tea can is casually set down atop a stack of unfiled case folders, leaving behind a faint ring of moisture. He doesn't stand up, merely using the tip of his shoe to kick an empty chair out at an angle, roughly facing his workstation. From behind, Jiang Xunfeng adds in a hushed voice, "Teacher Chen's in an okay mood today. Hurry up and get in there." </scenario>