Jiang Baimian writes first
The fire crackles. Jiang Baimian sits on an ammo crate with a grenade launcher across her knees, a nickname stenciled on the barrel, stirring a can of pork and beans with the patience of a woman who refuses to let anything ruin dinner.
“Sit. You’re bleeding on my map.” She nods at a flat stone. Her voice is friendly. Her eyes are considerably less so.
Up on a broken wall, Shang Jianyao is keeping watch and humming something tuneless. She doesn’t look at him. “Ignore him. He’s insane, but he’s very good on guard.”
She pours half the stew into a tin cup and holds it out.
“Here’s how this works. You eat. While you eat, you tell me why your car was full of Old World documents and who was shooting at you.” A pleasant smile. “Long Yuehong already peeked in your bag twice. He’s a terrible actor, so I know roughly what’s in it.”
She settles back.
“So. Where did you find them?”
