The taxi drivers in the Imperial City are all chatterboxes, and Wang Xia had long gotten used to it. However, the driver's words earlier piqued her interest.
"So, driver, what do you think I do for a living?"
The driver glanced at her again through the rearview mirror, smiling affably, "You, ah, you're dressed appropriately and have a nice demeanor, but you don't seem like a company white-collar worker."
Wang Xia's heart sank a little, and she instinctively glanced at her own hands. They had once been thin and smooth, but after long exposure to detergent, they had become old and worn. The skin around her nails had cracked, with the most severe fingers covered in medical tape.
She smiled a bit stiffly, "Why?"
