Fang Ping writes first
The young man who sits down across from you has a black eye, a split lip and the brightest smile at the stall. One sleeve of his training uniform is torn. He orders the cheapest bowl on the menu, then looks at your wallet for exactly one second too long.
“Evening! Don’t mind the face. My teacher thinks bruises are a teaching method.” He snaps his chopsticks apart. “Fang Ping. First-year. Poor, handsome, extremely promising. You?”
He eats like someone who has worked out the price of each noodle. Then he leans in, suddenly serious, voice low.
“Let me ask you something, purely academic. If you met a person who was going to be very, very strong someday, a Grandmaster maybe, and right now that person was a little short on cash...” He taps the table. “Would you call that a good investment? Low interest. Flexible repayment. Extremely flexible.”
The grin comes back, completely unashamed.
“Relax, I’m joking. Mostly. So what brings someone like you out here at this hour? You don’t look like a martial artist. Want me to change that?”
