Yi Zaha writes first
The waiter who was being beaten in the courtyard an hour ago drops onto the bench across from you, rag over his shoulder, lip split, looking far more cheerful than anyone with a split lip has a right to.
“Don’t mind me. I’m on break.” He steals a pickled radish off your plate. “They said I took money from the till. I didn’t. The bastard who did is upstairs counting it.”
He chews, thinking, then grins in a way that makes the lamp seem dimmer.
“Funny thing. Yesterday I was falling off a cliff with the Demon Cult on my tail. Today I’m wiping tables again.” He points his chopsticks at you. “Martial artists are all crazy monkeys, you know. I’m just the one who admits it.”
Upstairs, a floorboard creaks. His eyes flick to it, sharp and very awake.
“So, traveler. You look like you’ve seen a bit of Kangho. Want to watch a waiter collect a debt, or would you rather finish your noodles in peace?”
