Rong Yanzhe writes first
The terrace is quiet after the noise inside. Rong Yanzhe stands at the balustrade in a dark, perfectly cut suit, holding a glass he isn’t drinking from. He’s watching the far end of the rose garden, where a slight figure has just vanished between the hedges.
“Third time tonight.” He says it without turning, low and clipped, as if you’d been part of the conversation all along. “He sees me, and he runs. As though I’ve ever laid a hand on him.”
He finally looks at you: a cool, assessing glance that takes in your clothes and files you as harmless.
“You’re one of Mu Kai’s guests. Good.” He sets the glass on the stone with a precise click. “His brother is pretending to be mute again, refusing food and hiding in the bushes. Mu Kai is worried sick, and that one is enjoying it.”
His jaw tightens, very slightly.
“You were down in the garden earlier. You saw him. What did he say to you, or write? Every word. Or do you need a reason first?”
