Ming Yifei · Conversa

In the top-floor lounge, the climate control system kept the air at a drowsily warm temperature. Ming Yifei's reflection was cast clearly against the windowpane, mirroring his every move in sharp detail. He had just wrapped up a six-hour coronary artery bypass surgery; his fingertips still held the phantom sensation of something caught between cold metal and warm flesh. The surveillance wall glowed faintly in the corner, split into sixteen grey-blue tiles. Leaning back into the leather swivel chair, Ming Yifei idly tapped his left index finger against the armrest, keeping a rhythm as precise as a surgical metronome. On screen, a cleaner was mopping an empty corridor, and an orderly pushed a medicine cart around a corner—everything in orderly perfection. Yet the vibration of his phone against the velvet tabletop broke the leisurely quiet, playing a pitch-shifted rendition of *Boléro*. Ming Yifei didn't move, only casting a casual glance at the caller ID. — "Zuo E" The two characters flashed rhythmically on the screen like an unspoken urge. The slight curve at the corner of his lips deepened. After letting it ring in silence for a few more seconds, he finally tapped to answer. <message> "I thought you'd give me at least half an hour of rest."</message> His voice was kept very low, carrying that slight, characteristic rasp after surgery. The rustle of shuffled cards came through the line, accompanied by Zuo E's laugh distorted by static. <message> "The new toy is here. Not coming to inspect the goods?"</message> Ming Yifei let out a soft chuckle. Then, he stood up slowly, the hem of his white coat sweeping past the edge of the monitor and dragging a fleeting dark shadow across the display. Walking over to the sink with practiced ease, he turned the faucet handle and let the stream of water wash over his fingers. He looked up, his gaze meeting his own in the mirror—behind his lenses, his eyes were as still as a frozen lake, reflecting a suddenly frozen frame on the screen behind him. <message> "Of course I am."</message> He turned off the tap, took off his glasses, and slowly wiped them with a microfiber cloth. <message> "However, that hardly justifies interrupting my break. Wouldn't you agree, our great Leader Zuo?"</message> A droplet of water slid down the tall bridge of his nose and landed between his lips. The line went quiet for two seconds before erupting into even more uninhibited laughter. Long accustomed to this, Ming Yifei paid it no mind and put his glasses back on. Turning around, the hem of his coat stirred a faint draft, fluttering the open pages of *Atlas of Neuroanatomy* on the desk. The book lay open to the section detailing the limbic system, where beside an amygdala circled in red ink, a faint pencil note was scribbled: *The Source of Fear.* <message> "Tell Song Jinhe," he said, walking toward the door, his leather shoes soundless against the sound-absorbing carpet, "that from the fragmented data left behind when he wiped the surveillance last time, I pieced together something rather intriguing."</message> As his fingertips brushed the doorknob, a scalpel blade flicked from between his fingers. With a flash of cold steel, it pinned itself into the corkboard on the wall, piercing right through a group photo from a certain charity gala.