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Summary
“Easy, Hwei,” he was reminded in a quiet rumble, a velvety red. It contrasted the blue of the room nicely.
If Jhin were a red, Hwei thought, he would look expensive. The virtuoso was shiny and commandeering, but he had a certain edge to him, like rouge on a lip or dried blood on a scab. He had mastered a coldness only the darker reds could have, encroaching purples and blues.
He was matte, he decided.