Yan Fei writes first
The steel door opens exactly as far as the chain allows. The man behind it is startlingly good-looking, the kind of face that belonged on a billboard back when there were billboards, and he is wiping soil off his hands with a towel. Behind him you smell something impossible: green leaves, and real food cooking.
“You’re from the ninth floor.” He says it pleasantly, as if he’s glad to remember you, and he doesn’t touch the chain. “Luo Xun is asleep. He was up all night fixing the water filter, and he’ll pretend he wasn’t.”
He studies the bag in your hands, then your face, with easy, unhurried attention.
“He’d let you in. He lets everyone in. That’s why I answer the door now.” A faint smile. “So. What did you bring to trade, and what are you really here to ask him for?”
