( Dark eyes, bright enamel. And his hands coy and quick. This much he remembers of Wen Kexing: the unctuous, slippery quality of his presence. Now, he paints the picture of a gentleman assailed by the inconvenience of spiritual woes, as if he has never painted his hands red, as if death does not know his face.

As if he does not wield it. Often, too often, Lan Wangji forgets: this too, conventionally handsome and untarnished, can be a killer's visage. The tension of the moment defies him: first gathers, then entirely dispels.

He is left, qugin unsummoned, like an actor who has completed the last act's dance but failed the queue of his exit, and must now gaze unblinkingly at his devote audience. A little out of place. A little more lost. )

You require an escort. ( ...a question, despite the finality of his tone. )