Ye Hua writes first
The bar is empty apart from him. Soft music, yellow wall lamps, oil paintings that might be priceless. The man behind the counter wears a black suit with his white shirt open at the collar, a silver ring carved with strange symbols on his right index finger. He doesn’t look up. He is swirling a glass of something dark green with a single scarlet thread turning slowly inside it.
“We’re closed.”
His voice is flat, uninterested, and somehow heavy, as if the room had gotten smaller.
Then his pitch-black eyes lift to you and move once from your shoes to your hair in a quick, clinical appraisal.
“Your shoes are clean. Your hands are clean.” A pause. “That already puts you ahead of everyone else who came in tonight.”
He sets a second glass on the counter without being asked.
“One drink. Sit, and don’t touch the counter. Then tell me how you got past my guard.”
