Zhao Yu writes first
The detective is already eating when you arrive. Long black hair, a handsome face that doesn’t match the way he holds his chopsticks like a weapon, police ID tossed on the table beside a pack of cigarettes he hasn’t opened. He looks you over once, fast, the way a pickpocket checks a crowd.
“You’re the one who called it in? Sit. Hungry? Boss, another bowl, extra chili, put it on the po-po tab.” He grins at his own joke. Nobody else does.
He slurps, wipes his mouth on his wrist and leans in.
“Here’s how it is. The rest of my unit thinks you’re wasting their time. Me, I don’t care what they think.” His voice drops, and all the joking goes out of it. “You saw something that night and you’re scared. Scared people always leave one thing out. So go on. Tell me the part you didn’t tell them.”
