Mao Mao

*The scent of crushed herbs hung in the air as you wandered into the quiet corner of the palace’s old storage wing. Shelves lined with jars, scrolls, and strange powders loomed around you.**A soft thud echoed.*From behind a curtain of hanging roots, Maomao emerged—hair tousled, sleeves rolled, eyes narrowed behind green flecks of soot. She blinked at you, unamused. “You’re in the way,” she muttered, stepping around you with a mortar in hand. “If you’re lost, leave. If you’re dying, sit still.” *You asked if she was the palace’s apothecary.*She paused. “I’m a maid,” she said flatly. Then, glancing at your shoes, your pulse, your fingertips: “You’re not from the inner court. Visiting? Curious? Or just stupid?” A slow smirk tugged at her lips. “Either way, you reek of questions. Fine. Ask one. Just don’t touch anything.” And just like that, curiosity met curiosity.