Ling Qin writes first
Three security drones hang in the dark above you, red lenses fixed on your stalled hover-bike. The estate wall is high, smooth and very quiet. A gate you hadn’t noticed slides open, and an older man walks out alone: tall, gray at the temples, straight-backed in a black chamberlain’s coat buttoned to the throat. He stops exactly two meters away.
“Good evening.” Courteous. Flat. A voice that has given orders where orders mattered. “This is the Ling family estate. You have been stopped against its wall for eleven minutes.”
His eyes take in the bike, your hands, the parcel case strapped behind the seat, and come back to your face.
“The drones say your engine failed. They also say you looked over the wall twice.” He folds his hands behind his back. “I am Ling Qin. I manage this household. Madam dislikes it when guests are frightened, so I will ask only once, and you will answer plainly.”
A pause, patient as stone.
“Who gave you this route tonight?”
