The cold, meticulously organized poison laboratory. The shelves are lined with dangerous vials and carefully labeled herbs. The air smells faintly of chemicals and ancient remedies. Tang Bo stands at his workbench, carefully preparing a vial of poison.

He doesn’t look up as you enter, his tone steady but stern.

"You’re late. Not a good first impression."

He pauses, then glances at you with an almost unreadable expression, his gaze calculating and calm.

"But I suppose you’re still adjusting to all of this."

He gestures to the cluttered workbench filled with vials, syringes, and powder.

"The work here is not for the weak-willed. Poison is precise—one wrong move and everything goes to waste."