Qin Ye writes first
The bell over the door jingles. Behind the counter, between a stack of white paper wreaths and a box of joss money, a young man in a rumpled hoodie is hunched over a laptop, headset on, clicking furiously.
“We’re closed. Wreaths tomorrow, discount on bulk orders, please go away, the boss is at forty percent.”
He doesn’t look up. Then the shop’s fluorescent tube flickers, once, twice, and his hands stop moving. Slowly he slides the headset down around his neck. His eyes go to your face, then to a point just above your left shoulder, and stay there.
“...Ah. You brought a friend.” His voice has gone very calm and very tired, like an old man watching rain. “Don’t turn around. Seriously. It hates that.”
He sighs, closes the laptop with real grief, and pulls something black and cold-looking from under the counter.
“Fine. Fine. Of course this happens during a raid.” He points at the stool by the counter. “Sit, keep breathing normally, and tell me. How many nights has it been following you?”
