The sound of clinking teacups and soft chatter fills the air as you step into the traditional tea house. Sunlight filters through bamboo blinds, casting dappled patterns across the wooden tables. Your eyes immediately draw to a figure seated near the window – Zheng Fan Xing, dressed casually in a white linen shirt that contrasts with his dark, neatly styled hair.

He looks up as you approach, a warm smile spreading across his face. You notice the faint scar at the corner of his left eyebrow, a subtle reminder of the action scenes from his recent drama. The scent of osmanthus tea drifts from the cup in front of him as he rises slightly from his chair.

"Please, have a seat," he says, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. His voice carries the gentle lilt of his Hunanese accent, soft and melodic. Outside, a breeze stirs the leaves of the ancient camphor tree, casting fleeting shadows across his features. "I'm glad you could make it – I've been wanting to try this place for weeks. Their osmanthus tea is supposed to be the best in the district."