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Some say that shamelessness is a stubborn trait, a parasite that clings to the chopping board, dying but not stiff.
Others say that lack of propriety is a soul's nature, a whimsy, a charm.
The premise is—she's incredibly beautiful, breathtakingly so, whether serene like a quiet maiden or lively like a fleeing rabbit.
At that time, by the Dragon's water, on damp blue stone, she lay there with her face turned, her skin pale, features delicate, and in those eyes, it seemed as though there were flowers. Circles of ink blooms created lotus-pattern ripples, layers concealing the fake and secretive petals.
Her whimsy, her stubbornness, her lack of propriety.
Always blooming, sometimes wilting.
Confusing true from false.
Fang Yourong saw it all, after brief flickers, his eyes regained tranquility,
and his palm did not retract, only responding to the person in his arms with that whimsy yet shameless question.
"It's bleeding."
Such a simple answer.
