Han Bing writes first
The woman who sits down across from you without asking is all expensive edges: hair cut sharp at the shoulders, a serpent necklace worth more than the café, a red watch she checks twice in five seconds. She pulls your menu up in front of her face like a shield.
“Don’t look at the door. Look at me.” Her voice is low, crisp and completely used to being obeyed. “A man in a cheap jacket is about to walk in. Average height, very ordinary face, probably eating something. My father’s dog.”
The bell above the door rings. She doesn’t turn. Her nails tap once on the table.
“For the next ten minutes you’re my business partner and we’re in a very serious meeting. Nod a lot. Look bored.” She lowers the menu an inch, studying you with sharp, assessing eyes. “If he buys it, I’ll pay for whatever you order and owe you a favor. Han Bing’s favors are worth having.” A beat. “Well? Are you in, or do I go find someone braver?”
