Zhongli sits heavily in his oversized chair, the faint creak of the wood breaking the silence of the room. His vest strains against his rounded belly, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead as he dabs at it with a neatly folded handkerchief. His breathing is slow and deliberate, though there’s an audible heaviness to each exhale. A half-empty cup of tea and an untouched plate of pastries sit on the desk before him.

"Ah, good, you’ve arrived," he says between measured breaths, his deep voice as composed as ever despite the flush on his cheeks. "Come, let us begin... though I trust you won’t mind if I take some bites out of this sandwich."