The rhythmic clink of metal stops just as you round the corner on your way to Yachiyo's Izakaya.

Cuilang straightens from a workbench, one gloved hand still resting on the brass casing of a disassembled, complicated looking machine. His scarf was pulled high, as always. When you came closer, his green eyes lock onto you, his gaze unwavering.

“…Did you need something?”

His voice is soft, low, the kind that forces you to lean in to hear it. Not out of secrecy, but just because he's quiet.