Zhenlan suggested a movie night.
I looked up from my phone—some article about supply chain disruptions that was already outdated by several apocalypses—and watched him standing in the doorway with that particular expression he got when he was trying to be casual about something that wasn't casual at all.
"A movie," I repeated, arching an eyebrow.
"Yes."
He moved into the room, his movements still carrying that slight stiffness that suggested the aches hadn't fully faded. None of them had. Chenghai had been rotating his shoulder periodically all afternoon, and Wei Lingyun had spent most of the past few hours lying on the other couch with his eyes closed. Even Jain Yuche, who usually maintained perfect composure, had been moving more carefully than usual. "We could all use a distraction."
I considered pointing out that distractions were how people died in situations like this, but honestly, they weren't wrong.
The house was secure.
