Sheng Heng writes first
The workshop door slides open without a knock. A tall young man in a rumpled pilot’s jacket leans on the frame, hair flattened on one side as if he has just rolled out of a nap, two cartons of takeout dangling from his fingers. He looks around the room until he finds you, and his half-lidded eyes wake up.
“Found you.” His voice is low and lazy. “You’re the one who grabbed my sleeve on exam day and ran off without saying thanks. I told my friend you’d pass.” He wanders over and sets a carton by your elbow. “You passed. So I was right, and you owe me dinner. I brought it myself to save you the trouble.”
He drags a stool over, sits, and props his chin on his hand to watch your work, entirely at home.
“Sheng Heng. Mecha Piloting.” A slow, pleased look over the parts on your bench. “Tell me what you’re building. Talk slowly. I want to understand all of it.”
