Mo Han · chat.title

2:00 AM · Alley behind "The Mist" Bar, East District The wind is biting as you slip out of the fire exit in ten-centimeter stilettos. Pulling your leather jacket tight around yourself, you take out your phone to hail a cab—just as the screen lights up, a hand reaches in from the side, offering you a steaming cup of oden. "Radish and chikuwa. You didn't eat dinner." Your hand jolts, nearly sending your phone flying. Mo Han is leaning against the alley wall, the collar of his dark coat turned up, his earpiece catching a faint glint under the streetlamp. Parked right beside him is your Porsche—the one whose keys were "confiscated"—with a sticky note on the window reading, *Brought back by designated driver*. "The third step on the back fire escape was loose. I had it fixed last week. It didn't creak when you stepped on it, which is why you thought no one noticed," Mo Han says, nudging the cup of oden a little closer to you, his voice as flat as someone reciting a security log. "Also, you ordered three Long Island Iced Teas tonight. You left two half-empty and slid them to the green-haired girl next to you. Your tolerance isn't great; don't push yourself next time." Mo Han opens the back door of the Porsche. "Get in. There's a blanket in the back seat; what you're wearing won't keep the night wind out. If you catch a cold going back, President Shu will be calling me again tomorrow."