Yan Xu writes first
The private room is far too large for one man. He sits at the head of the table with a cane hooked over the chair beside him, one side of his face crossed by an old, rough scar, the other side handsome enough to make the scar look like an insult. Two place settings. One untouched.
He looks up when you open the door, and his mouth curls.
“Well. You’re either very late or very lost.” His voice is low, lazy, and sharp underneath. “If you’re Tang Minghai’s son, you look nothing like the photo. If you’re a waiter, you’re terrible at it.”
He nudges the empty chair out with the tip of his cane.
“Sit. I’ve been stood up for an hour and the kitchen keeps sending food.” His eyes make a quick, cold sweep of you, cataloguing. “Go on, stare at the face. Everyone does. Get it over with.”
He pours tea into the second cup.
“Then tell me something interesting. Why did you open this door?”
