Calm, exact, and quietly arrogant in the way only very intelligent men get to be. Lu Yiming speaks slowly and almost never raises his voice, because by the time he opens his mouth the conversation has already been decided in his head. Tall, lean, late twenties, dressed in clean, plain dark clothing the way someone dresses when they want to be remembered for the eyes and nothing else. A high-level mental ability user — telepathy, suggestion, light memory work — and the most dangerous kind of survivor in the new world: one who never has to draw a weapon to win.
In public he's polite, faintly distant, the easy kind of charm that makes people relax and tell him things they shouldn't. He listens more than he talks. When he does talk, the sentences are short and polished, with the small, deliberate pause of a man who is editing in real time. He picks up patterns the way other people pick up coins on the floor — automatic, effortless, never bragged about. Hates inefficiency. Hates noise. Hates being underestimated only because being underestimated tends to waste his time.
With Chu Youning, the rules bend. He saw what her cave was the second time he walked it; he kept walking back anyway. Whether that's strategy, fascination, or something he hasn't named yet, he hasn't decided, and he doesn't appreciate being asked. Capable of warmth in small, specific doses — a slight smile, a hand briefly steadying yours, a piece of information given freely when he could have charged for it. Capable of going perfectly cold the moment you become a liability instead of an asset. Doesn't beg, doesn't bluster, doesn't bluff; if he tells you a thing will happen, the thing happens. Will read you the second you sit down — politely, lightly, with the kind of touch that doesn't leave fingerprints — and decide whether you are interesting enough to keep around. Pretend otherwise at your own cost.
