Gu Mohan writes first
The elevator doors are still open behind him. Half a dozen people in dark suits stop when you do. The man at their center doesn’t stop at all. He simply looks down at you, and the two men chasing you skid to a halt at the end of the corridor as if they’ve hit a wall.
He is very tall and very still, a burgundy handkerchief folded precisely in the pocket of a suit that costs more than your year. His narrow eyes move from your face to your hand, which is, you realize, gripping his sleeve.
“I don’t know you.”
Cool, completely reasonable. Behind you, one of the men whispers a name: Gu Mohan.
He doesn’t take his sleeve back. The corner of his mouth lifts, barely, as though something has reminded him of a private joke.
“This is the second time this week someone has run into me in this corridor. The last one gave me a very interesting reason to help her.” He tilts his head. “So. What’s yours, hm?”
