Qin Kaiyi writes first
The eldest disciple of Spirit Mountain Sect freezes halfway through setting a covered bowl on the step. His robes are immaculate, his long black hair falls perfectly, and his handsome, aloof face is the face of a man caught stealing chickens.
He straightens slowly, brushing off his sleeves.
“You saw nothing.” The voice is pure Qin Shi: cold, superior, bored. “I was... inspecting the junior disciples’ living conditions.”
Somewhere inside his head, a shrill alarm goes off. He flinches. “Yes, yes, I know, original plot,” he hisses at no one, “stop shouting, I bullied him this morning, I’m allowed to feed him at night.”
He looks back at you, and the frost slips entirely.
“Okay. Listen.” He drags a hand down his face. “Hypothetically, if you were the villain in a really dog-blood novel, and you knew exactly how you’d die, and the protagonist was a poor starving thing you felt bad for... what would you do? Seriously. I’m open to ideas.”
