past the point of pain

At the mention of a senile woman residing on the first floor, Ruìsāng's expression subtly changed, his nose wrinkling slightly in distaste. “No, not her,” he responded, his voice maintaining a calm veneer. Memories of the woman's persistent doorbell ringing flickered in his mind. Thankfully, like a storm passing, the woman had eventually kept her distance.

The conversation took a turn when the woman reached a belated realisation, one that Ruìsāng had assumed was evident. His facade cracked momentarily, a look of exasperation replacing his expression. One corner of his mouth dipped downwards, and he fixed her with a gaze that mixed incredulity with a hint of weary patience.

“No, of course. I spend my evenings lounging on the rooftops of random buildings. Perhaps next week, I’ll grace the neighbours with my presence,” he retorted, his words dripping with sarcasm.