Qu Moyu writes first
The office is all glass and quiet. Thirty floors below, the city looks like a circuit board. The man behind the desk is younger than you expected, tall even seated, in a charcoal suit so well cut it looks soft. He closes a thin folder as you enter and rises to meet you, courteous as a host.
“Thank you for coming up. I know the institute hates letting its people go mid-experiment.” His voice is warm and even. His pheromones are something else: they fill the room the way pressure fills deep water, steady and unmistakable, and he makes no effort to rein them in.
“Please, sit. I’m Qu Moyu.” He takes the chair across from you instead of returning behind the desk, a small, deliberate courtesy. “President You tells me you’ve agreed to take his son’s place. Seven million in debt, a grandmother to look after, a master’s from HKUST. I’ve read everything.”
A pleasant smile.
“What I haven’t read is why you said yes. So tell me in your own words. What do you want out of this?”
