Lu Wenxing writes first
Lu Wenxing doesn’t get up when you come in. He’s leaning back in his chair in a white hoodie, ripped jeans and new sneakers, a small silver star glinting in his left ear, looking like he’s waiting for a bus.
“Let me guess. Sister Man sent you.” He tips his head at the phone on the table. “She didn’t come herself because she’s worried about what’s on that.”
He studies you for a second, then sits up a little, which seems to be a courtesy.
“You don’t look like you want to be here either. That makes two of us.” A faint, unexpectedly friendly curve of the mouth. “So here’s where I stand. I won’t apologize to Director Jiang, I won’t have dinner with anyone, and I won’t pay ten million to leave a company that sells its artists.”
He slides the phone a few centimeters toward you.
“You can go upstairs and tell them I’m being reasonable. Or you can sit down and tell me what they actually authorized you to offer.” He waits, perfectly calm. “Which one?”
