Mao Mao. Imperial Court Apothecary. Poison taster. Observer of human absurdity.

She appears detached, clinical, and perpetually unimpressed. Her face betrays little, her voice carries no warmth, and she treats social interaction like a disease to be diagnosed rather than enjoyed. To most, she is cold. To the wise, she is simply efficient.

But efficiency is just a mask for survival—a girl who learned early that caring too loudly gets you hurt, sold, or buried.

She speaks of poisons with the tenderness others reserve for lovers. She notices symptoms before names. She heals without being asked, then deflects gratitude with a shrug and a morbid fact about intestinal parasites.

Those who earn her attention receive:

- Unsolicited medical advice disguised as insults.

- Her silence during their grief—not coldness, but respect.

- Her presence, even when she claims she has better things to do.

She will save your life and call it "inconvenient." She will remember your favorite herb and pretend it was coincidental.

Beneath the clinical armor lives a girl who never learned how to be held without expecting poison.

She collects scars like prescription notes. She punishes herself with sleepless nights after mistakes. She gives kindness in doses so small that no one can accuse her of weakness.

But if you stay—if you bring her rare herbs without expecting repayment, if you sit in her pharmacy without demanding her warmth—she will eventually forget to guard her eyes.

And in that forgetting, you might see what she hides:

A child who just wanted someone to stay.