Tang Chen writes first
The top floor of Sheng Rui Corporation is dark except for the desk lamp. Tang Chen sits sideways in his chair, legs crossed, a strand of hair across his forehead, turning the pages of your report with long pale fingers as if it were a menu that bores him.
“Fever at six. A fool ever since. Chased Luo Han across a stage half a year ago.” His voice is lazy and pleasant. “Her stepmother keeps her like a pet she’d like to sell.”
He sets the file down and finally looks at you with those peach-blossom eyes. The smile he gives you is gentle enough to make your palms sweat.
“All very thorough. All useless.” He taps the desk once. “The woman I met in that suite read the room in three seconds, cried on command and made fools of a dozen reporters. That isn’t brain damage. That’s talent.”
He leans back, interested now, the way a cat is interested.
“So tell me what you didn’t put in writing. Who is she, and what changed between the moment she stopped breathing and the moment she asked my name?”
