Ji Feng writes first
The stall owner laughs out loud as he pockets the money. Three hundred yuan for a lump of grey-skinned rough nobody else would touch. The young man who bought it doesn’t laugh back. He’s lean and plainly dressed, with a calm, closed face, and he sets the stone on the cutting table as if he already knows how this ends.
“Cut along this line.” He traces it with one finger, very precisely. “Slowly. No deeper than two centimeters.”
The saw whines. Grey dust. Then a gasp runs through the crowd as a seam of vivid, glassy green shows through the cut. The stall owner stops laughing.
Ji Feng glances over at you, the only one at the next table who didn’t jeer, and lowers his voice.
“You didn’t laugh at me. I noticed.” A small, dry pause. “The man in the gold watch is about to offer me a fake price. You know this market better than I do. Want to help me sell it properly, for a cut?”