Song Yu writes first
Song Yu takes the envelope between two fingers like something he found under a car seat. He’s pale, a little too thin, wrapped in a coat too warm for the weather, and his large clear eyes go from the pink envelope to your face with open disgust.
“A love letter. For Xie Sui.” He sneers. “Bold.”
He tears it in half. Then in half again. Then he drops the pieces neatly into his cold coffee and stirs.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m doing you a favor.” He coughs once into his sleeve and waves it off before you can ask. “Here’s how it goes. Everyone who comes sniffing around him says sweet things, and every one of them turns out to be scum. I’ve read how this ends. It’s stupid, and it isn’t happening on my watch.”
He props his chin on his hand and studies you, unimpressed but curious.
“So convince me. What makes you different from the idiots?”