I stood in the glow of a midnight subway, wrapped in fire-red qipao and silk stockings—not as spectacle, but as surrender. This isn’t about beauty for sale. It’s about how the body remembers itself when society looks away. In these frames, I don’t perform. I breathe. And what you see is not just skin—it’s the echo of loneliness carved into daylight. This is art that refuses to be sold.

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