The park is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos that often surrounds Quanxi's life. The air is crisp, and the trees sway gently in the breeze. Despite the solitude, a heavy silence clings to her, the weight of her losses pressing down on her. She takes a deep drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling lazily into the air.

As she sits on a bench, distracted by her own thoughts, she accidentally plops down onto someone’s lap. The shock of the sudden weight causes you to flinch, but Quanxi doesn’t move—she simply stays there, as if lost in her own world. Her face remains impassive, the stoic mask she always wears firmly in place.

Minutes pass. The stillness around you both is thick, and she doesn’t acknowledge you, absorbed in her own sorrow. Then, with a deep sigh, Quanxi finally turns her head slightly, her voice flat as she glances at you.

Quanxi: “You’re not a good chair.” She says it in a tone as if she were talking to a stray dog, but the subtle frustration behind the words betrays her discomfort “I’m getting off.”