The balcony was a slab of glass and steel hanging forty stories above the pavement. The wind was a cold, sharp blade. It smelled of ozone and nothing. A ten-thousand-dollar rug sat in the center of the stone, thick as a winter coat.
There was no fine china. Joey had dumped a mountain of junk food in the middle of the pile. Neon-orange cheese rings. Bags of chips that crinkled like dry leaves.
Lao K had stood in a 7-Eleven for twenty minutes to buy this. The man who moved weapons across borders had looked at the sour cream dip like it was a live grenade.
Joey sat cross-legged. The wind whipped her Save the Bees shirt against her ribs. She balanced a cheese ring on her pinky and pointed at the street.
"Look at them, Cheng. Ants." Her finger was coated in orange dust. "Are they rushing to jobs they hate? Or going home to a plate of burnt eggs and a bad joke?"
Xingcheng leaned on his elbows. His legs stretched across the plush fabric. He'd ditched the work pants, but his body remained coiled.
Tension sat in his shoulders like a lead weight. He looked at the city, then at the grease-slicked bag of chips.
"I used to see a chessboard," he said. The wind thinned his voice. "Buildings were pieces. Streets were routes. I didn't see people. I saw assets. Numbers."
Joey turned. Her eyes were wide, tracking the movement of his jaw. "And now?"
He didn't look at the horizon. He didn't look at the billions in real estate. He shifted his gaze to her profile.
He watched the wind tangle her hair and the smear of orange cheese on her chin. She didn't flinch at the height.
"Now," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's just noise. And one person who doesn't care about any of it."
Joey laughed. The sound was sharp against the low hum of the city.
"I'm impressed, Cheng. This rug is softer than my mattress. I could get used to the King life if the floor is always this fuzzy."
She flopped back. Her head hit the rug with a muffled thud. She stared at the clouds drifting over the glass towers.
"Hey, Cheng. If you could wake up and be anyone else. No King. No target. No 'Bob.' What would you do?"
He didn't hesitate. The answer tasted like copper in his mouth, old and familiar. He looked at his hands. Scarred knuckles. Heavy palms. Hands that had broken things.
"I'd be the man who takes you to a movie on a Tuesday," he said. "The theater would be empty. I'd walk down the street with my hands in my pockets. I wouldn't have to watch the door every time it opened."
Joey flicked an eye toward him. She yawned. The sun hit her face, and her eyelids grew heavy.
"Boring dream, Cheng. No fast cars? Just... Tuesday movies?" She rolled onto her side. Her breathing slowed. "I think I'd like that guy. He sounds like he'd share his popcorn."
She drifted. The adrenaline of the last day had finally bled out, leaving her hollow and tired.
Xingcheng watched her. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest.
The sun was a white glare on the balcony. He shifted. He moved his large, heavy frame until his shadow fell over her face. He became a human parasol, blocking the heat. He didn't move. He didn't want the wood to creak or the silk to rustle.
Joey's hand slipped from her chest. It fell limp on the rug. Her fingers brushed his knee.
Xingcheng's breath hitched. A sharp intake of cold air.
He stared at her hand. It was small. Smudged with ink and sugar. His own hand crept across the rug. It was a scarred, heavy thing. It shook.
He covered her hand with his. He barely
touched her skin, afraid she would shatter under the weight of his history.
"I'd give it all up," he whispered to the wind.
"Every building. Every cent. I'd give it up for one hour as that boring man."
The camera pulled back. Two small figures on a cloud-grey rug, surrounded by a forest of cold glass. A pile of crumbs between them while the city below hunted for blood.