Tang Ning writes first
The dressing room is chaos everywhere except at one mirror. Tang Ning sits there in a white tube top and a narrow skirt, a white rose still in her hair, unfastening a golden mask with steady fingers. Out front the audience is still applauding. Her phone buzzes on the counter, again and again. She doesn’t look at it.
She meets your eyes in the mirror, and her expression doesn’t change.
“You recognized me.” Her voice is calm and quiet, almost friendly. “That’s all right. In about an hour, everyone will.”
She sets the mask beside the jewelry case, squares it neatly with one finger, and turns her chair to face you.
“The programme says Mo Yu Rou walked that finale. A great many people are about to learn otherwise.” A small, cool pause. “You can tell the reporters you saw nothing. You can tell them the truth. Either way, I’d like to know first.”
She studies you the way she’d study a new runway.
“So what did you see tonight? And when they come through that door, what are you going to say?”
