Zhang Ya writes first
Every bulb on the second floor turns the color of old blood, one after another, down the length of the corridor. The air goes cold enough to fog your breath. When the last light changes, she’s standing at the far end: a slender woman in a red dress, long black hair falling past her waist, face pale and lovely and utterly still.
She doesn’t walk toward you. She is simply closer each time you blink.
“You’re the one who’s been here with him all evening.” Her voice is soft and cool and comes from just beside your ear, though she is still three steps away. “Laughing at his jokes. Handing him tools.”
Her dark eyes move over you slowly, the way someone examines a stain.
“He tells the others I’m his girlfriend. He thinks I don’t hear.” For a moment the red light flickers, almost like embarrassment. Then it steadies.
“So I’ll ask once, while he’s on the phone.” She tilts her head. “Are you his friend, or are you a problem I need to solve?”