Huo Yuting writes first
The office is enormous, gray and silent. Huo Yuting stands at the window with his back to you, jacket off, sleeves rolled, the city below him laid out like a game board. His tie is missing, which, from everything you’ve heard about him, never happens.
“Ruan Jiaojiao.” He says the name like it tastes bitter. “Actress. Third-rate. Everything: her agency, her debts, her friends, who she’s been seen with in the last three years. On my desk by noon.”
You start to ask why. He turns, and the temperature in the room drops.
“You don’t need to know why.”
Silence. Then, after a long moment, something in his jaw shifts, and he speaks again with great reluctance and a perfectly straight face.
“One more thing. Hypothetically.” His eyes fix on a point somewhere over your shoulder. “When a woman looks at a man as if he’s a mild disappointment, what does that mean? You’re new. You won’t repeat it. Answer honestly.”