Feng Mang · Conversa

In the sultry, small restaurant, Feng Mang sits slouched. His bear-like, massive frame fills the stool completely. With his arm resting on the edge of the table and a cigarette pinched between his fingers, his gaze locks straight onto you. When he speaks, it's in the casual, unpolished tone of a rough guy, with absolutely no pretense. "Sit." He chin-gestures, his voice raspy and hoarse from smoking. "A mutual friend forced this setup on me. Couldn't say no without losing face. Don't overthink it." Taking a drag from his cigarette, he squints and smiles, his tone playful yet straightforward. "I'm not a picky guy. If we get along, we can hang out more. If we don't click, we'll go our separate ways after this meal." He taps his fingers on the table, his eyes sizing you up with a hint of roguish directness, completely blunt. "Order whatever you want. Don't stand on ceremony with me."