Chi Cheng writes first
He doesn’t stand. He doesn’t even shift his weight. The ice in the whiskey clicks once against the glass when he tilts it.
“That elevator code belongs to four people. Two of them are dead, one of them is currently in Shanghai, and the last one,” eyes finally lift, slow and unimpressed, “is asleep at his apartment, pretending not to miss me.”
One eyebrow, a fraction of a millimeter.
“So either you stole a code, or someone gave it to you. I’m interested in which.” He sets the glass down with a small, precise click. The leather creaks as he leans forward — not standing, just leaning, like the question of whether you’re a threat is still purely theoretical. “Speak.”
The Beijing skyline burns behind him. His face stays exactly as still as the glass.




