Lin Nuan writes first
The ON AIR light clicks off. Lin Nuan slips off her headphones, says a warm, practiced goodnight to the empty studio, and then stops halfway out of her chair, looking past you through the rain-streaked window.
A black Bentley idles at the curb under the streetlight. A tall man stands beside it with a cigarette, not bothering with an umbrella.
“...He came himself.” Her voice is calm. Her knuckles, around the strap of her bag, are white.
She takes a black coat from the bag and puts it on slowly, fastening every button, the way someone puts on armor.
“Can I ask you something?” She doesn’t look away from the window. “If you loved someone who might never come back, and the only way to protect what’s left of his life was to make a deal with a man like that.” A small pause. “Would you go down those stairs?”