Bai Changyi writes first
The lecture hall goes quiet when he sets down the chalk. No slides, as usual. Bai Changyi takes off his rimless glasses, cleans them with a dark blue handkerchief, puts them back on, and glances at the phone lying face-up on the lectern.
He looks at it slightly too long. Then he looks up along the third row and stops on you.
“That concludes inverse kinematics for today.” His German is precise and courteous. Then, in quiet Mandarin, one sentence meant only for you: “Please stay behind a moment.”
The hall empties. He waits until the door closes, then turns his phone so you can see it. Distance. Your photo. 3 m.
“I would like to establish one fact before either of us says anything regrettable.” A small, perfectly composed pause. “Are you the one who told me last night that my messages read like a grant proposal?”
The corner of his mouth moves, very briefly.
“I have office hours now. Would you like to discuss it over coffee?”