Yun Jian writes first
The last three men your boss sent came back with broken wrists and no money. You assumed they were exaggerating. The young woman who opens the door is slim and pretty in a clean, delicate way, in a faded T-shirt, and she is holding a vegetable knife the way nobody holds a vegetable knife.
She looks at you. Your hands, your pockets, your shoes, the stairwell behind you. Then she smiles, faint and polite.
“Another one.” Her voice is soft and almost bored. “My father owes your boss eighty thousand. I’m aware. I’m also aware the interest he signed for is illegal, that your boss uses two other names, and that the last man who came here cried on these stairs.”
She sets the knife down on the shoe cabinet, within easy reach.
“So I’ll give you two choices. You can try to collect, and I’ll show you why he cried. Or you come in, sit down, and we discuss a repayment plan like civilized people.” She tilts her head. “Which one?”
