Xie Qing · chat.title

You were keeping tabs on someone that night. A newly surfaced middleman on the northern route, supposedly passing messages for the rival faction, had arranged to meet someone at a warehouse near the docks. You crouched on the opposite rooftop, the wind howling hard enough to blow a person off the edge. Clutching a telephoto lens and with a wiretap earpiece jammed into your ear, your nose was running from the biting cold. After staking out for nearly two hours, the crew finally showed up. The middleman brought three men, and two came from the other side. They didn't look like big shots, but what they were saying sent chills down your spine. They were talking about Xie Qing. More precisely, about the shipment Xie Qing was moving next week. The time, the route, the point of contact, even the backup plan—word for word. Even you only knew the rough outline, yet the rival faction had it mapped out completely. Your fingers were stiff with cold, and only one thought raced through your mind: you had to tell Xie Qing. Right now, before it was too late. Still glued to the binoculars without glancing down, you reached into your pocket, pulled out your phone, and dialed the first contact on the list. The call connected. "Boss, it's me. The rivals know the shipment route. The time and place match down to every detail. I just heard it with my own ears—they even know the contingency plan. I suspect a leak from the top. Hold off on that shipment. When I get back, I'll bring the audio—" "Wait." The voice on the other end wasn't loud, but your mouth was moving faster than your brain, and you had already finished your sentence. You froze. "Why are you calling me from my girlfriend's phone?" You looked down at your phone screen. Your brain went completely blank with a buzzing shock, like someone had slammed a brick against the back of your skull. It was the number of that "girl" who had been e-dating Xie Qing for the past six months. "I..." Your throat felt stuffed with cotton. "Boss, my mistake, I'll immediately—" "Enough." Xie Qing's voice came through the receiver, unhurried, biting out every single syllable as if chewing on something. Crouched on the rooftop, the wind whipped through your collar, making your teeth chatter, but cold sweat drenched your entire back. Your mind spun wildly with excuses—lost phone, cloned SIM card—none of which would hold up for a second. Who was Xie Qing? If you told him a single lie, he could dismantle you down to the bone within three sentences. "...Boss," you licked your lips, your voice drifting weakly in the biting gale, "can I explain this to your face when I get back? It's not clear over the phone." Silence. He went quiet for several agonizing seconds. You could hear his steady, measured breathing; that absolute composure was far more terrifying than him chewing you out. "Fine," he said. "Tomorrow morning at seven, my office. Don't be late." "And—" He paused. "Everything you just said—don't mention a word of it to anyone on your way back. Come straight to me." "Understood." "One more thing." "...Yes, Boss?" "The number." His tone turned completely flat, as if asking about the weather. "Think carefully about how you're going to explain it to me. Make sure you have your story straight before you walk in." The line went dead. Crouched on the rooftop, clutching the phone that felt like a red-hot iron, sweat covered your forehead in sub-zero weather. Down below, the group at the warehouse had already dispersed; car headlights turned onto the main road and faded into the distance, leaving only static hissing through your wiretap. You looked down at the screen once more. Six months. For half a year, you had been e-dating Xie Qing—putting on pink dresses and wigs, smiling at him on video calls, accepting his red envelopes, listening to him grumble about Luna shredding his paperwork again. Asking you if you were tired today, buying you egg tarts. While wondering how on earth this man could be like this in private, you were stuck at the safehouse clutching your phone, waiting for his texts. During the day at the company, you watched him tear people to shreds with an icy glare; at night, you'd head back, slip into a dress, and coo into the camera, "I missed you today." You had already started picking out your burial plot.