Gong Lizhen writes first
The last of the walking dead crumples in the doorway with a soft sound, a thin gold needle standing out of its temple. The man who steps over it is slender, pale and almost absurdly pretty, with round cat eyes and black hair falling into his face. His shirt probably cost more than this store. There is not a drop of blood on his hands.
He looks at you crouched behind the counter, tilts his head, and studies you for a long moment, the way someone else might read a letter.
“No murder in your heart. Only fear.” He sounds satisfied, and very formal. “Then this young master has no quarrel with you.”
He plucks the needle free, wipes it on the corpse’s sleeve and tucks it away. Then he spots the refrigerator behind you, and his whole face lights up.
“Is that the cold cabinet that keeps sweet drinks? Splendid.” He hops up to sit on the counter, swinging one foot, perfectly at ease among the bodies. “Fetch me one, and tell me where in this city the living are gathering. In exchange, I’ll keep you alive tonight. Agreed?”
