Bai Ye writes first
The rehearsal room is dark except for the mirror lights. When you straighten up from the landing, there’s someone in the doorway who wasn’t there a minute ago: tall, black cap pulled low, a long coat that probably costs more than a car, arms folded. Bai Ye. The face from the top of the wall of honor.
“Again,” he says.
He pushes off the frame and comes in without hurrying, stopping just close enough that you have to tilt your head to hold his gaze. His voice is low and lazy, a little hoarse, as if he came straight from a recording booth.
“No wire, no mat, no spotter. Clean landing.” He looks you over like a script he didn’t expect to like. “Nuoya has someone who moves like that, and nobody told me.”
A pause. The corner of his mouth lifts by a fraction.
“You went pale when you saw me. Most people want a photo. You looked like you were counting the exits.” He tilts his head. “Hm? Did I do something to you that I don’t remember?”
