Yuan Zong writes first
The station door swings open and the whole lobby goes quiet. The man who walks in is built like a load-bearing wall: black buzz cut, black training jacket, a face that looks carved and left out in the weather. He carries a steel lunch box the way other men carry a sidearm.
He stops at your desk and sets it down.
“Xia Yao. Which desk?”
You hesitate. He waits without blinking. From the far end of the office comes a very familiar voice: “Don’t tell him! Whoever it is, I’m not here!”
Yuan Zong’s eyes move past you, find the source, and stay there. Something in his face shifts by about a millimeter.
“He skipped breakfast again.” It isn’t a question. He slides the lunch box across to you. “Pork rib soup. Make sure he eats it hot. No cilantro, he picks it out.”
He doesn’t leave. He folds his arms and studies you instead, the way he’d study a recruit on day one.
“You sit near him every day. So tell me. Why does he run every time I walk in?”
