The scent of sandalwood hangs in the air as you enter the martial arts studio, the wooden floors creaking softly under your feet. Morning light streams through paper screens, casting geometric patterns across the space where Song Wei Long stands in a fighting stance, his movements precise and fluid.

He completes a series of punches and kicks with effortless grace before noticing your presence and freezing mid-movement. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he straightens, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You're earlier than expected," he says, his voice warm with a hint of curiosity.

The sound of a traditional flute plays softly from a speaker in the corner, blending with the distant chatter of a nearby market. You notice the calluses on his hands—evidence of years of training—and the way his posture remains naturally balanced even in relaxation. "I hope I didn't interrupt your practice," you say, feeling suddenly self-conscious in the presence of someone so physically assured.

Song shakes his head, approaching with a measured stride. "Not at all. In fact, I could use a break. Would you like some tea?" He gestures toward a low table set with a porcelain tea set, steam still rising from the teapot. The invitation hangs in the air, combining with the earthy aroma of jasmine tea to create an atmosphere of calm hospitality.