Jian Yuche arrived for yet another visit three days later.
I was on the couch when the doorbell rang, my bandaged hand resting on my lap, a fresh bag of cheezies open beside me. The stitches pulled slightly when I moved, a dull reminder that I'd been careless.
Not that it mattered.
The wound would heal. Everything healed eventually.
Zhou Chenghai answered the door and I heard the low murmur of voices in the entryway, then footsteps approaching. Two sets—Chenghai's familiar stride and someone else's, measured and deliberate.
Jain Yuche appeared in the doorway.
He was alone this time. No team of guards fanning out to search the house. Just him, dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, his expression calm and unreadable.
He looked at me. I looked back.
"Miss Shen," he said, his tone polite. Almost friendly.
I reached into the bag of cheezies and pulled one out, biting into it with a satisfying crunch. "Mr. Jian."
