He looked at her chest again.
"I don't think that's accurate," he said.
"It is," she said. "Completely flat. Flat as this log. There is no measurement. Don't look."
"The binding line suggests—"
"'Flat,'" she said. "'As a stone.'"
He said nothing for a moment.
"I genuinely don't believe that," he said.
She turned to look at him fully. Her eyes had the specific quality of a sword cultivator who has been pushed past the event horizon of patience. "Then don't believe it," she said. "I don't need to prove anything to you. Don't believe it. It doesn't matter. They're flat. You can carry that doubt to your grave."
"The binding uses three layers," he said. "Single-layer bindings are sufficient for—"
"'Three layers because I run cold,'" she said.
"Running cold doesn't require chest binding," he said.
Her hand had gone to the hilt of the demon sword with the automatic motion of a person whose first response to stress had been the same for a very long time.
"Chen Yun," he said.
