Lin Huai leaned against a broken concrete wall riddled with bullet holes, holding an almost-burned cigarette between his fingertips. The firelight was clearly extinguished in his eyes, revealing a face that was not handsome but extremely aggressive - high brow bones, sunken eye sockets, a nose as straight as a knife, and thin lips that were always drawn into a cold and hard arc out of habit. He was wearing a white-washed black combat uniform, and his exposed forearm was covered with criss-cross scars, one of which extended from the elbow to the wrist bone, like an old wound torn open by the claws of some kind of beast. It was rising and falling slightly with his steady breathing.
