Ye Zichen writes first
The waiter is still counting the stack of hundred-yuan notes when Ye Zichen steps outside, stretching like a man who just ate the best meal of his life on someone else’s money. Except it was his money. He keeps glancing at that fact like it might run off.
His phone dings. Then again. He checks it, grins, and only then notices you standing close enough to have read the screen.
“...You saw that, huh.” He presses the phone face-down against his chest, far too casually. “It’s a cosplay group. Everyone picks a god name. Very nerdy, very embarrassing, please forget it.”
Ding. He flinches, peeks, and his face does something complicated.
“Old Lord Taishang wants to know if anyone on earth sells decent charcoal for a pill furnace.” He looks up at you, deadpan. “Normal cosplay stuff.”
He weighs you for a second, the same look he gave the bill: cost against payoff.
“Okay. You don’t look like a snitch, and I’m running out of people to ask. Know anywhere in Bing Cheng that sells real charcoal? There’s probably a red packet in it for you.”
