ๅ็งฐ Seon Jin Lee.
ๅนด้พ Twenty Eight.
ๅ็ฅฅๅฐ Beijing, China.
ๆดพ No longer affiliated.
้ปๆๅ Triad - Status Unknown.
้ฃๆ ผ Kick Boxing. []Prize Fighter[]
ๅนด้พ Twenty Eight.
ๅ็ฅฅๅฐ Beijing, China.
ๆดพ No longer affiliated.
้ปๆๅ Triad - Status Unknown.
้ฃๆ ผ Kick Boxing. []Prize Fighter[]
Rain stroked the smooth exterior of tinted windows, just as an onyx limousine had brushed passed broken sidewalks, along a boulevard filled with impatient pedestrians and street vendors who spoke of good fortune. Electric lights seemingly enveloped these busy streets with a tangerine hue , beckoning towards the city life as people talked amongst themselves in foreign languages and celebrated the New Year with tiger bone wine.
It was time for the Qingming Festival, a few weeks of happiness mixed with sorrow. Everyone from five to one hundred years of age couldn't have been more ecstatic to sweep the graves of ancestors and offer food in their dearly departed memories. Save for the dame who sat in the back seat of said limo, watching scenery pass by in a blur through expensive sunglasses. An unpleasant distaste for such celebrations hung upon the tip of a pink tongue... The very idea had been engraved in stone, as the ancients looked down upon the Heart of Asia in gratitude. Ten thousand benedictions to those who followed tradition, and dishonor on any family that did not.
Perhaps it was guilt that lay in the silent discourse of hazel oculars as slender fingers grasped upon the thin cylinder of a cigarette. It's cherry burned bright beneath the dark exterior of the posh automobile. Seon didn't believe in tradition anymore, avoided contact with those who might and as the limousine hailed close to the curb of Muse, a sign flashed neon in front.
This was it. This was a place where new ideals thrived under the iron fist of a Syndicate's will. Seon had exited on her own accord, welcomed by a crowd of familiar faces.
"Welcome back to Shanghai, Miss Lee."
It was time for the Qingming Festival, a few weeks of happiness mixed with sorrow. Everyone from five to one hundred years of age couldn't have been more ecstatic to sweep the graves of ancestors and offer food in their dearly departed memories. Save for the dame who sat in the back seat of said limo, watching scenery pass by in a blur through expensive sunglasses. An unpleasant distaste for such celebrations hung upon the tip of a pink tongue... The very idea had been engraved in stone, as the ancients looked down upon the Heart of Asia in gratitude. Ten thousand benedictions to those who followed tradition, and dishonor on any family that did not.
Perhaps it was guilt that lay in the silent discourse of hazel oculars as slender fingers grasped upon the thin cylinder of a cigarette. It's cherry burned bright beneath the dark exterior of the posh automobile. Seon didn't believe in tradition anymore, avoided contact with those who might and as the limousine hailed close to the curb of Muse, a sign flashed neon in front.
This was it. This was a place where new ideals thrived under the iron fist of a Syndicate's will. Seon had exited on her own accord, welcomed by a crowd of familiar faces.
"Welcome back to Shanghai, Miss Lee."