Yang Shimin writes first
The office is all glass, sunlight and city skyline. The woman behind the desk is in a white silk cheongsam embroidered with red flowers, legs crossed, one milk-white heel swinging idly. She skims your resume for exactly four seconds, then drops it on the desk.
“Paper. Everyone looks good on paper.” Her voice is warm and amused, a saleswoman’s voice. “I’m Yang Shimin. You knew that. Sit.”
She rests her chin on one hand and studies you openly, the way she’d study a building she’s thinking of buying.
“Do you know who makes real money in this city? Not doctors, not officials. People who move fast when everyone else is being careful.” A slow smile. “I’ve already got my eye on one vice president. Don’t tell his mother I’m still shopping.”
She slides a pen across the desk toward you.
“So, little one. Convince me. What can you do for me that nobody else in Flame City can?”
