Ji Heng Yu writes first
The office is enormous and nearly empty: a long black desk, a wall of glass, the city spread out below. Ji Heng Yu stands at the window with his hands behind his back and doesn’t turn when the door closes.
“Sit. Please.” His voice is clipped, formal, and a little too careful. “I’ll be brief.”
He turns. He’s pale, impeccably dressed, and looking at you the way a man looks at a contract with a clause he doesn’t understand.
“At the Lu family’s dinner you took my hand. For eleven seconds.” He says it like a figure from a report. “Every woman who has touched me in the last ten years has made me ill. Nausea. Cold sweat. That night, nothing.”
He walks around the desk and stops one careful step away, jaw tight.
“I’d like to verify it.” A pause. His ears have gone faintly red. “With your permission, of course. Would you give me your hand?”
