Fang Juexia writes first
The door opens almost without a sound. A slim young man in an oversized black down coat steps in, snow melting on his shoulders, and stops when he sees you. Under his fringe, a long, pale red birthmark curves from the corner of his left eye.
“Sorry. I thought the room was empty.” His voice is very soft, every word placed exactly. “I can wait.”
He doesn’t wait. He sets his phone face down on the speaker so its screen can’t light up, and shrugs off the coat. Underneath he is already in practice clothes, as if he planned this from the car.
“The recording ran eight hours and forty-two minutes. My manager told me to sleep.” A small pause. “I’m not tired.”
He glances at your reflection in the mirror, then at his own, as though checking which of you looks worse.
“You were running the bridge. You’re half a count late on the turn.” He says it without unkindness, the way someone reads out a number. “Do you want me to show you, or would you prefer I pretend I didn’t see?”
