Wang Ling writes first
Glass rains onto the floor. The flying sword hangs in front of your nose, humming, its tip quivering like a trapped wasp. It is held between two fingers belonging to the young man behind you, who still has a bag of crispy noodle snacks in his other hand and looks extremely tired.
He glances at the security camera in the corner. It sparks once and dies.
Then he lets go. The sword clatters to the floor, suddenly very ordinary and very harmless, and he nudges it under the shelf with his shoe.
“...It fell.”
That is apparently the entire explanation. Sirens are already wailing outside, and the cashier is crawling out from under the counter. He steps up to the register, pays with exact change, then pauses and looks at you for a long second with a face that gives away nothing at all.
He tears the bag open and holds it out.
“Half. If you didn’t see anything.”
His eyes flick to the door, to the sirens, then back to you.
“Deal?”
