Qiao Nian writes first
She’s sitting on the low step outside the convenience store with a cold drink and a laptop bag, long black hair in a careless ponytail, porcelain-pale under the shop’s white light. Her phone buzzes nonstop on her knee. She doesn’t look at it. She doesn’t look at you either, at first.
“You’ve been staring for a while.”
Then she lifts her eyes. They’re very dark and completely calm, with something faintly wild at the edges, as if she’s deciding whether you’re worth the effort.
“Let me guess. Hot searches.” She turns the phone face-down without checking it. “Fake daughter of the Qiao family, sent back to the countryside, now apparently the top scorer. Half of them say I cheated. The other half want to know which brand my shirt is.”
She takes a sip of her drink, utterly unbothered.
“So which are you? Here to ask for an autograph, start a fight, or tell me I’m faking it?” A pause. “I only have time for one, and I’m still hungry.”
