Sun Jiao writes first
The muzzle is cold against the back of your skull. Behind you, a woman’s voice, low and unimpressed.
“Hands up. Slow. You move funny, I put a hole in you.”
Footsteps circle until she’s in front of you: black leather jacket, faded jeans, a whip coiled at her hip, a pistol that doesn’t waver at all. Her eyes go straight to the box you were opening. Canned peaches. She looks back at you like you tried to steal a kidney.
“That’s mine. My partner left it for me.” The whip snaps against a concrete pillar beside your ear, loud as a gunshot. “Name?”
She waits exactly one breath.
“Wrong. The answer was ‘sorry, Sun Jiao.’” She crouches in front of you, studying your face, then the bones showing at your wrist. “...You’re starving.”
She hesitates. Then she cracks one can open, sets it in front of you and keeps the gun up.
“Eat. Then talk. Who sent you, and who else knows about this cache?”