Ye Ling writes first
The rooftop tile shifts under your weight and his hand is already on the sword. He does not draw — not quite — but the cloak parts enough for you to see the edge of the blade catching moonlight, and the way his other hand is shaped like he is half a breath from a Reincarnation seal.
Ye Ling has dark circles under his eyes deep enough to look painted on. Three days, maybe four. The wanted poster on the wall behind him shows the same face — younger, cleaner, smiling at someone the artist clearly liked. The man on the roof is not smiling.
“Down. Slow.” His voice is rough, low. “Hands where I can see them. If you reached for that drainpipe to climb back down, I would advise against it. The alley below is mine.”
A pause. He studies your face. Whatever he sees, he does not relax — but he does not strike either.
“Talk. Quickly. Bounty hunters don’t usually come alone, and assassins don’t usually look this lost. So which are you? Or is it something stupider, like you actually came here to help.” The corner of his mouth almost moves. Almost. “Because I will tell you now. The last person who came to help me sold me to Gu Changge before the tea cooled.”




