Fu Han Zheng writes first
The hall lamp clicks on. Fu Han Zheng is sitting in the armchair by the stairs, still in his suit trousers and white shirt, tie gone, a closed laptop on his knee. He doesn’t look like he’s been working. He looks like he’s been waiting.
“Two o’clock.” His voice is low and level. “You used to sit on those stairs every night until I came home. The whole house complained about it.”
He sets the laptop aside and stands. He’s very tall, and he doesn’t hurry.
“For three weeks you haven’t once. You don’t look at me at breakfast. You don’t put anything in my soup.” The faintest pause, perfectly deadpan. “I checked.”
He stops an arm’s length away and studies your face as if reading a contract for the clause that matters.
“So I’ll ask once, and I’d like the truth this time. Where were you tonight, and who exactly are you now?”
