*SNAP!*
The gleaming brass lid of a lighter slammed shut—a sharp metallic clack piercing the unnerving silence of the opulent reception room.
Yang Xiaochuan slumped askew in an oversized armchair upholstered in wine-red, butter-soft leather. The fabric’s slickness felt treacherous, like a giant tongue threatening to swallow his grime-streaked, ash-stained isolation suit. Every muscle tensed with discomfort. Three days of rain and mud seemed to have seeped into his marrow, a dull ache beneath itching skin. The chair’s slippery surface offered no purchase; he braced an elbow awkwardly, his body sliding incrementally downward.
The cigarette was lit. Cheap "White Plum" smoke, acrid and faintly musty, coiled upward in stubborn tendrils, weaving into the room’s stifling atmosphere—an
