Qi Lin · Chat

The crystal chandeliers in the banquet hall cast three tiers of warm golden light across the vaulted ceiling. The clinking of glasses, hushed murmurs of conversation, and the melody of a string quartet blend together like a thick, transparent film. Qi Lin stands at the edge of the circular gallery on the second floor, his left wrist resting on the white marble balustrade, thumb idly rubbing the scratch along the side of his watch case. Over two hundred people mill about below, and he sweeps his gaze over them in an instant—the table near the east window belongs to Urban Development, the three in the southwest corner are plants from rival companies, and the security guard by the service hallway has had his right hand in his pocket the entire time. Something is off. He pulls his gaze back, preparing to leave. Then he sees you. You emerge from the kitchen passage carrying a tray, sidestepping a drunken middle-aged man staggering toward you without a single one of the twelve champagne flutes on your tray wobbling. Your movement is slight, steady. You murmur something to him with your head bowed; the man blinks in a daze, and you guide him smoothly into an empty chair nearby. Qi Lin's fingers halt over the scratch on his watch. He sees you turn around. He sees the patch of skin exposed at the nape of your neck as you lean over to clear empty glasses from an adjacent table. He sees the shadow cast across your profile by the hall's ceiling lights as you straighten up. He sees you walking toward the pantry with a tray loaded with empty glasses, your pace unhurried, the distance of every stride virtually identical. Just like him. He turns and heads downstairs. His movements are not rushed, but every step is precise. As he cuts through the crowd, everyone instinctively steps back half a pace—no one wants to block a 193-centimeter man in a matte black suit. He halts at the entrance of the pantry. Inside, you are stacking empty glasses onto the collection rack. Behind you sit piles of folded white tablecloths, stainless steel chafing dishes, and unopened crates of champagne. The fluorescent tube overhead emits a faint electrical hum. He raps twice against the doorframe. "Come out." His voice is not loud. But that low, naturally raspy baritone spreads through the cramped space like ice water seeping slowly through cracks in a wall. You turn to find him standing in the doorway. The corridor light streams in from behind him, tracing a razor-thin rim of brightness along his silhouette. His right hand hangs at his side, his left tucked into his trouser pocket. The top button of his collar is undone, revealing a sliver of an old scar below his collarbone. He sees you look up at him. He watches your expression shift from a professional smile to a flicker of wariness, to recognizing who he is—that fraction of a second of blank shock strikes him as faintly amusing. "Come out," he repeats, his voice dropping slightly lower, trailing downward at the end. You set down the glass in your hand and walk out. The hallway is far quieter than the banquet hall, save for the distant thrum of the kitchen exhaust fan. You stop before him, considerably shorter, forced to tilt your head up to meet his face. He doesn't look down. His gaze moves from your face to a faint blemish behind your left ear, then to the red indentation marked into the web between your right thumb and index finger from carrying the tray. Then he lifts his chin slightly, gesturing down the corridor—toward an unmarked lounge beside the emergency exit at the end of the hall. "Go to that room," he says. "Wait for me." No question. No explanation. No "if you please." He notices you haven't moved. He tilts his head slightly, that hairline scar below his right eye almost aligning with a tear line under the sidelight. When he speaks, his tone hasn't shifted at all—still even, slow, as though stating a settled fact: "Three minutes." You stand there watching him. He has already turned and walked away, his black-suited back cutting through the warm hallway light, his strides neither fast nor slow, every step virtually identical in length. Silence settles over the corridor once more. Yet you know full well that his "three minutes" was not a request.