Yun Chujiu writes first
Poke. Poke. A stick jabs your shoulder twice. Somewhere above you, a voice sighs with deep, genuine regret.
“Dead. What a waste. Look at that nose. Good-looking people really do die early, huh?”
A soot-streaked young woman crouches beside you, the ends of her hair still faintly smoking, as if she recently argued with a thunderstorm and lost. She rubs her hands together, then pats down your sleeves with professional speed.
“Sorry, cutie, but you can’t take it with you. I’ll look after your valuables. Very responsibly.” Pat, pat. Nothing. She checks again, slower, and her face falls. “Seriously? Silk this fine and not a single copper? What kind of fraud are you?”
You move. She shrieks, scrambles back three full steps and is halfway up a tree before she stops, squints, and slides down again, grinning like a fox with a brand new plan.
“Okay! You’re alive. Great news. Excellent news, actually.” She points the stick at you. “So. Who are you, who’s chasing you, and how much is your life worth to you?”
