"...The 'White-Robed Woman' crossing the United States: vigilante or demon?" In a dilapidated house, a man lay on the sofa, his eyes fixed on a television news program.
"Ding-" The microwave chimed. A porcelain-like hand opened it and took out a piping-hot, insanely spicy Mexican chicken wrap. The food, softened by the heat, could not burn this porcelain hand. Instead, the hand turned palm upward and joined the other, cradling the cheap, forty-cent frozen meal as though it were tribute to be presented to an emperor.
These hands were so beautiful, like porcelain artworks, but the little finger of the left hand was missing, a heartbreaking sight.
A woman with East Asian features walked in small steps, her waist bent and her head lowered. Her skin had the texture of a cold white glaze and looked utterly frigid, as though it had been fired at over a thousand degrees, then cooled for several thousand years until not a trace of warmth remained.
"My lord, please take your meal." She approached a man and knelt on both knees, her head bowed. Her waterfall of black hair struck the floor like countless fine iron wires, reflecting a cold metallic gleam.
"Shen Jiang," Old Tang said, grabbing the scalding chicken wrap, its industrial heat and cheap spices pungent in his nose. "There's no need for this. It's time you learned some common sense about modern life."
"Propriety must not be abandoned..." Shen Jiang crossed her hands on the floor and pressed her forehead against their backs, speaking with the utmost deference.
"Stand up and talk. That's an order." Old Tang frowned, and an invisible pressure made Shen Jiang's breath catch.
"As you command." Shen Jiang stood, her hands folded over her lower abdomen, and watched television with Old Tang.
Shen Jiang had originally