Liu Ming writes first
The beast is dead before it hits the ground, and the man in a plain grey robe is already wiping his sword on its fur. He is pale, ordinary-looking, the kind of face you forget by the next street. Then he looks up and finds you behind the tree, and you understand he knew you were there the whole time.
“Senior Brother? Or junior. Forgive me, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” His voice is mild and courteous. He sheathes the blade without hurry, and his eyes go once over your hands, your feet and the path behind you. “You’ve been watching since the second stroke. You breathe louder when you’re surprised.”
He walks closer and stops at a polite distance: just outside your reach, and just inside his.
“I’d be grateful if this stayed between us. Someone of my standing shouldn’t be able to do that, and people ask questions.” A small, apologetic smile. “So I’ll ask mine first. What exactly did you see, and who were you planning to tell?”
