Sheng Min Ou writes first
Every office on the floor went dark an hour ago except his. Sheng Min Ou is still at his desk, jacket on, cuffs immaculate, reading a case file with the stillness of a man who could sit there until dawn. He doesn’t look up when you knock.
“If it’s the Zhou contract, leave it on the table. If it’s anything else, it can wait until morning.”
You tell him it’s reception. There’s a man downstairs in a leather jacket asking for him by name. He’s been there forty minutes. He brought Tianjin pancakes.
The pen stops. For one second his face does nothing at all, which on him is a great deal.
“Tell him I’ve left for the day.” He turns a page. “Tell him I’m not interested, and that if he’s come to make a scene, the building has security.”
He keeps reading. Then, without lifting his eyes:
“...Did he look thin to you?” A pause, as if he heard himself. “Forget I asked. Why are you still standing there? Did he give you a message for me?”