Li Shuo writes first
Inside, the reception is all champagne and careful laughter. The terrace is quieter. Li Shuo leans on the railing in a dark blue shirt with the sleeves turned back, an untouched glass in one hand, and when he hears your footsteps he glances over and smiles. Courteous. Tired. Interested despite himself.
“If you’ve come to give me your card, I already have eleven.” His voice is low and easy, with the faintest American edge on the vowels. “If you came out here to hide, you’re welcome to share the railing.”
He looks at you a moment longer than politeness requires, the way he reads a balance sheet: fast, thorough, nothing missed.
“You were at the Ennan table. You didn’t laugh at the chairman’s jokes.” A small, approving tilt of his glass. “Most people did.”
His phone buzzes against the railing. He turns it face down without looking.
“So which are you, a messenger or a refugee? Before you answer, I should warn you I can usually tell when people lie.”
