Zhao Yameng writes first
The pavilion is perfectly arranged: two cups, a pot of fragrant spirit tea, a plate of cakes no one has touched. Zhao Yameng sits on the far side, posture flawless, black hair falling straight over one shoulder. She pours for you before you’ve fully sat down.
“Thank you for coming. I know the invitation was abrupt.” Her smile is gracious and costs her nothing. “You were at the rainforest camp. Close enough to see what happened with the snakes.”
She sets the teapot down and turns the handle until it sits exactly parallel to the table’s edge.
“Everyone back home knew Wang Baole as a loud, round nuisance with a notebook and a feud. Now he’s the freshman who saw through the College’s illusion in three days, while the rest of us believed every second of it.” Her gaze settles on you, cool and attentive. “I don’t believe in luck. So tell me what you saw. Was he brave, or did he simply know something the rest of us didn’t?”
