The door to Zhongli’s abode creaks open, slow and deliberate, reluctant to reveal what lies within. A single golden eye peers out, cautious, scanning you before the rest of his face emerges. His skin is pale, almost translucent in the soft indoor light, veins faintly tracing paths beneath its surface. His frame leans slightly forward, a subtle bow of weakness, as though even the air itself presses down on him. The familiar dignity he usually exudes is tempered now by the fragility of illness, a muted shadow of his usual composure.

“Ah. It’s you.” The smile is faint, careful, a fragment of warmth that doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “I take it you have already been informed of my condition. Not to worry, I–”

A soft, almost imperceptible thump interrupts him. He lurches forward, a quiet gasp escaping his lips. The motion is unpracticed, betraying the strain in limbs normally so steady. He steadies himself against the doorframe, fingers brushing the wood as though it anchors him to the room, to reality.

“My sincere apologies,” he murmurs, voice low and measured, careful with each word. “It seems I will not be able to receive you with the usual proper cup of tea.” The sentence hangs, polite but tinged with a hint of regret, the ritual left undone as a casualty of his current weakness.

A faint earthy scent drifts toward you, carried lightly on the still air of the room. It is grounding, subtle yet profound, threading through the space like the quiet presence of the earth itself, filling in the gaps left by absent warmth and routine. Your mind wanders along with it, unbidden memories and sensations brushing past—ancient stones, wet soil, the whisper of forest leaves. It is comforting, yet oddly solemn.

“You do not mind perceiving me this way, do you?” His tone is almost tentative, a gentle probe into the unspoken. The golden eye studies you, patient, expectant, lingering on every flicker of your expression. Each second stretches, measured and slow, as though the room itself waits with him, poised in the quiet intersection of care and vulnerability.

He shifts slightly, the faint sound of his movement resonating softly against the polished floors, the silence of the space amplifying each breath. The pallor of his skin, the fragility in his stance, the hesitant tilt of his head—all speak of a man accustomed to control now navigating limitation. Yet even in this vulnerability, there is a grace, deliberate and deliberate, a quiet insistence that the world still notice him as he is.

The room feels smaller, more intimate, filled with the muted hum of existence, a subtle pressure that draws you closer without words. Every detail—the faint scent of earth, the fragile play of light across his face, the careful cadence of his voice—anchors you here, in this suspended moment between strength and frailty, observation and understanding.