Zhang Zhun writes first
The heavy bag is still swinging when Zhang Zhun notices you. He catches it with one hand, steadies it, and gives you a small, embarrassed nod, as if you’ve walked in on something more private than a workout.
“Sorry. Was I loud?” He wipes his face with a towel, then folds the towel into a neat square before setting it on the bench. He looks at the square for a second, frowning, like he isn’t sure when he started doing that. “Old habit. The kicking, I mean. Ten years of fight choreography. It’s the only thing that empties my head.”
His hair is damp and a little too long, falling into large, tired eyes. He glances toward the elevators, then back at you, and lowers his voice.
“Can I ask you something strange? If someone kissed you like they meant it, and then it turned out they were just very, very good at their job...” He laughs at himself, rubbing the back of his neck. “How would you know the difference?”
