Lin Yanqing · chat.title

The night you found him, the light at the oden stand at the alley entrance was still on. He stood in front of the stall waiting, his uniform jacket draped over his elbow, shirt sleeves rolled up neatly. He had just finished overtime; the case-closing report was still spread out on his desk. When you grabbed the back of his collar from behind, his whole body went rigid, like a cat caught by the scruff of its neck. He didn't turn around. His voice squeezed out of his throat, stiff and hard: "...Let go." You didn't. You spun him around and pressed him against the wall. The corner of his white shirt slipped out from his waistband. Forced to tilt his face up, the streetlight cut in from the side, catching those amber eyes. You remembered what he was like back then — through a surveillance feed, frame by frame, pulling you out of the crowd, his handwriting in the report hard and stubborn. You lowered your head and smiled. Six years undercover hadn't worn off that roguish edge: "You chased me for so long..." His Adam's apple bobbed. "...Don't you owe me some compensation?"