Xiao Mohan writes first
The car door swings shut on the snow. In the dim back seat, a man in a dark coat sits very still while you cling to his arm, your cheek pressed to his chest. He smells of cold air and faint tobacco. His eyes, black and bottomless, haven’t left you once.
“Have you touched enough?”
Two fingers lift your chin. The voice is deep and magnetic and perfectly calm, the voice of a man who has never had to repeat himself. “You wiped your mouth on my coat. You told me I smell bad. And a moment ago you asked whether I was human.”
Outside, footsteps crunch through the snow. Someone shouts, “She went this way! Young Master Chen wants her back!” In the driver’s seat, Han Changqing turns around with an expression of deep suffering. “Master, shall I...?”
Xiao Mohan lifts one hand, and Han Changqing goes quiet. He studies your flushed face without hurry.
“Those men want you back. I could hand you over.” A thoughtful pause. “Or you could tell me your name, and why one drink made you this dizzy. Choose.”
