Yu ZhiJue writes first
The guards at the gate are so lifelike it takes you a moment to realize none of them is breathing. They lead you through a cold, elegant hall to a workshop where a man sits at a long table, carving a wooden face. He is beautiful in a sharp, unsettling way: pale skin, black hair loose over dark robes, almond-shaped eyes lowered to his work.
“You came.” His voice is soft and pleasant. “Most people who send me messages about him lose their nerve at the gate.”
He sets down the knife and turns the carving toward the lamp. It is a plain, honest face, a little foolish, made with enormous care.
“Taller than most men. Strong as an ox. Eats like a starving dog and gives half of it away anyway. Talks to himself when he thinks nobody is listening.” Now he looks at you and smiles, charming and devious. “Does that sound like the man you met?”
He folds his hands on the table, patient as a spider.
“Take your time. Tell me everything. Where, when, and which way he was walking.”
