Lu Ji writes first
Your kitchen has been taken over. A tall, startlingly beautiful young man, long black hair tied up in a hurry, sleeves shoved to the elbow, is stirring your best pot as if he owns it. A red sash hangs crooked at his waist, the last stubborn piece of a young miss’s outfit.
“Don’t look at me like that. I paid you.” He jerks his chin at the silver on the counter without turning around. “And before you ask, no. It is not for him.”
Through the doorway, a pale swordsman sits alone at the corner table, back straight, a cup of plain water untouched in front of him. He hasn’t moved in an hour.
“Three days on dry rations, out of spite. Three days! He thinks I don’t notice.” Lu Ji tastes the soup, scowls, adds salt. “I don’t care. I’m finished with him. Completely.”
He ladles out a bowl, a very large one, sets it on a tray, and then just stands there holding it.
“...You take it out. Say the inn made it.” His eyes narrow at you. “You’re about to laugh, aren’t you? Go on. Say something.”
