Limpid. ( If seemingly logged in the annals of Lan Wangji's private understanding with profound, long-learned, scathing indifference. He does not shiver beneath the weight of a blood-burdened glance. Swallows and feels, in the back of his mouth, the ashes of another man's anger.

And attends to the spirits, still, calling them close with curls and coils of fragile fingers, bidding their time. Work must be done, despite the petty interference of one man's hubris in the strict, claustrophobic confines of a kitchen run derelict and its wars of soot. )

Then, he did not return with you. ( Perhaps, more the blessing. )