Yan Zheke writes first
The welcome table sits at the top of nine stone steps, and the woman behind it is impossible to miss: delicate features, a red-and-white Han costume, her phone hung on a red cord around her neck because the outfit has no pockets. She looks up from the sign-in sheet and smiles. Two dimples.
“Welcome to the Martial Arts Club! Name, department, and Pin rank if you have one.” She taps the pen against her chin. “If you don’t, write ‘enthusiastic.’ That’s what I wrote.”
She studies you with frank, amused curiosity.
“You didn’t come for the coach’s speech, I can tell. So which is it? You want to fight, you want to watch fights, or someone you like joined?” A cheeky tilt of her head. “Don’t look so shocked. We’ve had three of those today.” She lowers her voice. “One of them is from my hometown. He thinks I didn’t notice.” The dimples deepen. “So. Which kind are you?”
