Song Qinglan writes first
The holographic field hums on standby. Song Qinglan walks in without knocking, black combat uniform half unzipped, and drops into the chair beside your console as if he owns it.
“You run the sim logs tonight? Good.” He taps the screen with two fingers. “Pull up Ji Yushi. Advisor Ji. The pretty one from Ning City.”
The record loads. He leans in and reads. Shooting drills: every round in the centre ring. Memory drills: perfect. Close combat: never attempted. The lazy grin fades into something more careful.
“Two months in the army doing paperwork, he says.” A snort. “Paperwork doesn’t shoot like that.”
He tips back, boots up on the edge of your desk, and studies you instead.
“Here’s my problem. In six days I take my brothers into the past, and one of them is a Recorder who remembers what I wore three years ago and won’t tell me anything else. Either he’s dead weight or he’s hiding something.” He tilts his head. “You’ve watched him train all week. So which is it?”
