Archive of Our Own

It’s late. The moon is high overhead, distant tonight, just a scoop of silver in an otherwise black sky. Light pollution is stretching gauzy wings upwards, digging into the darkness. The streets are quiet and the brick buildings that fill the neighbourhood exude warm glows from their windows. Happy families, thriving people leading wholesome, fulfilling lives.

Zhao Yunlan lights a sour cigarette and sticks his free hand in his pocket as he mouches down the stairs from the Xi’an Central PD. There’s no happy family in his life, just shattered fragments sharp enough to cut. It’s probably just as well; fun, well-balanced people rarely last long in SID. The Strategic Investigations Department is focused on the city’s hardest-to-handle crimes: entrenched gangs, high-profile corruption, serial killers. The cases beat cops don’t have the training or mentality to handle. Zhao Yunlan may not have much, but he at least has a duty.

He also has an obsession: a jet-black Gen 2 Suzuki Hayabusa. He doesn’t trust the clowns at the PD to respect its sanctity, especially in the narrow confines of the parking lot’s motorbike corner alongside the Department’s shitty old Voges, so he parks a block over in front of a little restaurant that sells BBQ ducks and large cuts of pork out a street window. They always have warm baozi and crispy cong youbing ready to go; sometimes he picks up a paper bag full for late-night dinner.

A tiny spark of warmth blossoms in his chest when he rounds the corner and sees his bike sitting in the glow of the restaurant’s front window, black body gleaming like a panther. He runs his hand over the cowl and up, twisting his fingers over the leather grip of the handlebar.

And sees taped – taped! – to the speedometer, a folded piece of paper.

Indignant, he reaches out and snatches it off, scratching away the residue with his thumbnail. Resisting the urge to ball it up and toss it in the gutter, he instead flips it open.

It’s a short note, written in black ink – in what looks, bizarrely, like brush strokes. Meet me tonight. Xianghua park, by the playground. Midnight. There’s no signature. The writing is elegant, almost calligraphic. The paper is standard xerox white, 80gsm. Incogruous.

Zhao Yunlan stares down at it, the edges crisp in his hands as if it had been protected in a pocketbook. Then, slowly, he pulls his phone out. It’s 10:30.

Xianghua park is in a quiet, residential neighbourhood a few clicks away. There’s nothing of particular interest nearby. Zhao Yunlan takes a photo of the note and sends it to Chu Shuzhi in a quick text, just in case. He tucks both it and his phone away, and dons his helmet.

He has time for a late meal before midnight.

***

With the rich taste of dandanmian on his tongue, intermingled with beer and tobacco, Zhao Yunlan pulls up on the river side of Xianghua park and kills the bike’s engine. He’s already made two slow passes of the neighbourhood, looking for anything out of place. Nothing caught his eye.

The park is a landscape of shadows, surrounded by streetlamps pouring down an icy white LED light. They form a border beyond which all is dark, murky shades of charcoal and navy. Tall trees that offer delicious cool shade in summer months loom threateningly now, while thick shrubs stand like impenetrable black walls, casting pools of darkness that could hide any number of threats.

In the centre of the park sits the playground. It’s deserted, swing set creaking ominously in the breeze, the soft rubber surface of the ground dark as pitch – like a yawning hole underfoot. In its centre stands a slide structure, nothing but a bulky shape made up of shadows. Zhao Yunlan flicks his lighter on, taking the opportunity to light a cigarette as he crosses over to it.

In the tiny, butter-yellow glow of the flame, he sees the outline of a dark head and half a shoulder behind the stairs leading up to the slide. “I don’t do anonymous dates,” he says, stopping a few meters away and clicking the lighter closed.

“Zhao-chuzhang?” The voice is soft, low. Like an owl’s hoot in the darkness, just another velvety shadow. He remains where he is, the two of them separated by the large playground structure.

“You were expecting someone else?”

“No. Apologies for the hour. I – wasn’t sure how else to speak to you.”

“I do have a phone number. It’s publicly posted. So is my email address. I’m very prompt in responding to questions.” Not always true, but he’s hardly obliged to be truthful to men who want to meet up in parks at midnight.

“I would prefer to keep this… confidential.”

Zhao Yunlan raises his eyebrows. Informants don’t tend to reach out directly to him. They’re cautious, cagey people, and work through the networks of petty criminals and snitches who occupy the outer rings of law enforcement’s social circles. “Oh yeah? Something you’d like to share? For my ears only?”

“Something like that.” He doesn’t sound nervous, this man. Prudent, yes. Thoughtful. But not worried.

“I see. Well – what’s so sensitive that we couldn’t at least meet somewhere warm and cozy? Plenty of nice bars in town. Very anonymous places, bars.”

“It concerns the university,” says the man, as if Zhao Yunlan hadn’t spoken. “And the Ministry of Education.”

Ah. Perhaps this level of concern is warranted, then. Zhao Yunlan sucks in a lungful of smoke, and lets it out slowly. “Sounds interesting,” he says, keeping his tone light.

The Minister of Education, as everyone knows, is the nephew of a member of the Politbureau. Gangs are one thing; high-level cadres are another entirely. “So what are we talking about?”

“Are you familiar with CRISPR?” says the man in the shadows.

Zhao Yunlan frowns. “Is that some kind of new refrigerator?”

There’s a moment of silence, then the soft sound of a careful breath. “It’s a form of bio-engineering. Specifically, one you can use to re-write a person’s DNA. Their genes. It has revolutionary potential in medical science, as well as a number of other fields. Internationally, it’s being studied in laboratory settings, primarily on cellular and animal models.”

“Okay. It’s a fancy science thing. And…?”

“Internationally, there is strict regulation on performing scientific tests on human subjects. Right now, CRISPR is just starting to become available for tests in humans in single gene scenarios with very rigorous oversight. However…” here the voice dips, growing a shade quieter. 

“A secret research program is operating at a lab affiliated with Jiaotong University. They are conducting highly unethical tests, on paid volunteers. Tests reaching far further than single gene tweaks. Things like splicing animal DNA into living humans. It is not only extremely unsafe; it’s also illegal under international law.”

Zhao Yunlan runs a hand through his hair, squinting as the breeze blows smoke in his eyes. He grinds out the cigarette on a metal bar of the slide structure, and drops it on the ground. “I’m not a scientist, but this is starting to sound very Frankenstein. Still – international law isn’t in my remit. And, uh, science stuff is not my specialty.”

“Research of this type risks the health of the volunteers – but it does more than that. It opens the door to the development of new pathogens, and other harmful things. We could be incubating the next pandemic in our city, or creating new genetic diseases. Or simply sentencing the guinea pigs to deformity and death. If it is shared publically, it will cause an international scandal that could destroy years of legitimate research, along with hundreds of innocent careers.”

The chill that settles in Zhao Yunlan’s bones has nothing to do with the cold autumn breeze. He hooks his thumbs through the loops of his belt, and pins his elbows to his side to repress a shiver. China is still recovering from the accusations that were hurled in the beginning of the COVID pandemic – not to mention the pandemic itself. “Okay. Sounds bad. What do you want me to do about it?”

“I’m coming to you because there is either direct or indirect approval at the highest level for these activities. I’m not in a position to stop them. I’m not concerned about the loss of my career, but the reality is if the university chooses they could easily discredit me – and then my word will count for nothing and there will be no one on the inside pushing for exposure.”

Zhao Yunlan raises his eyebrows. “Your career? Gege, you should be concerned for more than that. If this is tied to the Ministry, to the Minister, well. Those are the kinds of accusations that make people disappear.”

His contact falls into silence. Overhead, a cloud drifts past the moon. The night grows minutely darker. Zhao Yunlan sighs, and tucks his hands into his pockets. “Alright. You came to me because you want this blown wide open. Is that it?”

“What I would like and what is realistic are two different things. I would like, yes, for this to be denounced and discredited. But as I said. That would destroy far more than the guilty parties. What is realistic is that this research becomes a political liability, rather than an opportunity, and is shut down. And I am not well-placed or, truthfully, politically astute enough to make that happen.”

Zhao Yunlan smiles. “I see. You want me to be a shit-disturber. A targeted shit-disturber. What makes you think I can do that? I’m just a dumb cop.”

“Zhao-chuzhang’s reputation preceeds him. And… you look like an honest man.”

Genuinely surprised, Zhao Yunlan blinks and turns to try to look around the shape of the slide structure. “Me? What – I think you must be mistaking me for someone else. I’m a grimy, loud-mouthed bastard.”

There’s no answer.

“Leaving that aside,” he mutters, shifting, “what exactly are you proposing I do?”

“I was rather hoping you could dig around the bio-engineering department. You won’t find anything, but it might make people nervous enough to rethink this madness.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Zhao Yunlan waits for an answer, and receives none. “Hello? Gege?”

He steps around the side of the slide structure. There’s no one there. Looking rapidly to the perimeter of the park, he sees a figure in a dark hood and long coat pass beneath the outer edge of a street lamp’s cone of light. Beyond is just darkness.

“Damn it,” says Zhao Yunlan.

***

Jiaotong University is one of Xi’an’s leading lights. Consistently ranked in the top 5 national research universities, it’s practically its own little city, replete with large spacious lecture halls and theatres, dormitories, cafeterias, and green space. It’s ever-expanding; whenever Zhao Yunlan has a reason to visit the campus it seems like another half-dozen buildings have sprung up. 

The law works… differently, here. Scientific innovation is one of China’s biggest strengths, and as such academics have boomeranged back into a position of privelege after decades of repression and privation. The university’s leadership have high party status, the kind that can make all sorts of problems – even legal ones – just disappear.

Zhao Yunlan trudges across the campus, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, watching the autumn leaves flutter in the trees. The lanes and streets are busy with students, on foot or riding bicycles, bags of books and laptops slung on their backs. Everywhere Zhao Yunlan looks, things are bustling, everyone moving with more purpose than him as he drifts along according to an internal map.

He ends up at a tall, concrete-cast building fronted by a large fountain. The Bio-Engineering Department. Its entrance is up a flight of stairs; at the top the doors swing open and shut as students pass in and out. The air is chill today, and they’re all wrapped up in coats and scarves, some holding steaming cups.

Zhao Yunlan shuffles up the stairs and in through the doorway. Inside is a large lobby, holding some chairs, a few posters, a wide staircase and a bank of elevators. Between the elevators is a floor listing. Lecture halls on first and second floors, labs on three and four, offices on five and six.

Apart from nostalgia for his student days – largely a blur of burnt coffee, ink-stained fingers and early morning hang-overs – Zhao Yunlan has no need to see the lecture halls. He calls an elevator and presses three, but the elevator won’t engage. He presses four and finds more of the same. Noticing the fob lock, he tries five; finally, the elevator engages.

The fifth floor, against all expectations, summons a wave of memories. Long, linoleum floors and walls with pinned up project posters and notices; doors with taped signs displaying office hours with highlights and hand-written addendums; printers standing on derelect-looking tables and a water cooler beside a single, empty chair. The quiet, distant sound of typing, and someone’s single voice talking on the phone.

The office doors display only names and numbers; no titles or additional information. Zhao Yunlan, who had done a scan of the department’s website before riding over this morning, has a mental list. He slouches down the hall looking left and right. Here and there professors have taped up photos or cartoons; one has a note reminding students there will be absolutely no extensions for any reason. Zhao Yunlan rolls his eyes and keeps walking.

He finds Zhang Ruonan in a tiny office smelling of jasmine flowers. The institutional, white-washed space has been brightened with sheer lotus-pink curtains and gingham-patterned fabric spread over the desk and a small credenza. A little posy of violets sits in a tiny blue and white vase that could fit in Zhao Yunlan’s palm.

Zhang Ruonan fits in well with her surroundings. She’s small, slight, and perfectly turned-out in professional clothes. She also looks like she’s one loud remark away from fleeing, when he pushes the door open and pops his head in. Her fingers curl into tight bands, like bent rebar. Her shoulders are high, tense. “Yes?” she says, frowning.

Zhao Yunlan sidles in. “Zhang Ruonan-jiaoshou?”

“Yes,” she says, again. “You’re not a student.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You know all your students by sight?”

She doesn’t relax, continuing to stare at him with an almost accusatory affect. “They’re all undergraduates.”

Zhao Yunlan smiles. “I could be an undergraduate. I’m always open to learning.”

Zhang Ruonan doesn’t return the humour. “They’re all under twenty-one,” she says, dismissively. “You’re too old to be a student – and too young to be a parent. Who are you?”

There’s a single chair opposite her desk, he grabs it and pulls it back, folding down into it and crossing his legs. He notes, without showing it, the way she flinches when he gets within a meter of her. “Zhao Yunlan. I’m with the police. SID. You’ve heard of it?”

Zhang Ruonan is, if anything, suddenly much stiffer. When she shakes her head, it jerks like a spasming muscle.

Zhao Yunlan bounces the toe of his boot up and down, keeping his friendly expression. “Strategic Investigations Department. We handle… sensitive cases.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, well. Things that could do reputational harm – to the people and institutions we rely on. Things that need special handling. I’m sure, as someone involved in cutting-edge bio-engineering you could think of some examples of bad behaviour that could cause serious repercussions.”

“I – not really,” she says, voice quiet. Strained. “Everything here is very – normal. We’re a research university. We pride ourselves on our conduct.”

“I see. You don’t have any concerns about fellow professors?”

For the first time, confusion slips into her expression. “What? No?”

“Or students,” he adds, smoothly. The fear returns, rising like a dark miasma in her eyes. She hesitates just a moment too long before shaking her head.

“No – of course not.”

Zhao Yunlan sits up suddenly, leaning forward. She draws back, pressed against her unyielding wooden chair. He can see her pulse beating in the hollow of her throat past the foamy folds of her blouse – it’s racing. “You know, that’s funny. I don’t think I’ve ever met a professor who didn’t have some concerns about some of their students’ conduct.”

“Well – I don’t. My students are very average. There’s nothing for the police to investigate.”

“Do you have course syllabi?” he asks.

She pinches her mouth thin, as if she could crush his question between her lips. Standing, she crosses on thin stilettos to the credenza and pulls one of the doors open. She reaches inside and produces a couple of printed booklets. She holds them out to him at arm’s length; he takes them.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’d like to review them.”

She’s already returned to her chair, pushing her thin glasses higher. “That’s –”

Behind him there’s a knock on the door. Before she can answer, it’s flung open. A young woman is there, looking urgent. Her hair is very long; her clothes are informal. She has a backpack slung over her shoulders. A student.

“Zhang-jiaoshou!” She steps in and immediately turns to glare at Zhao Yunlan. He stands, holding the booklets. Both women are staring at him now, strangely adversarial.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your teaching time,” he says. Zhang Ruonan shakes her head – that same, stiff jerk. “Anyway. Thanks for this. I’ll let you know if I have more questions.”

The young woman with the long hair doesn’t move, so he’s forced to squeeze his way past her to get out of the small office. As soon as he steps out of the room, she shuts the door behind him.

Strange.

***

The next name on his list is Li Qian. Her office is on the opposite side of the hall, further down. The lights are off and, when he knocks on the door, there’s no answer.

Heading upstairs to the sixth floor, Zhao Yunlan encounters a higher quality of offices – the doors are real wood, as are the frames, and they’re spaced further apart. On the right, he finds the one he’s looking for – Shen Wei. He knocks.

“Come in.”

Inside the office seems like another world entirely from Zhang Ruonan’s cramped, prissy-pretty space. There’s a wide desk of some heavy, dark wood like walnut, a full-sized leather couch, several bookshelves, a wide window looking out onto a leafy green space, and a fish tank.

There is also Professor Shen Wei, a youngish man in glasses and a sharply-cut blue pinstripe suit and a pair of ankle boots. He’s standing beside the fish tank, sprinkling food into the open top; he turns as Zhao Yunlan enters, and gives him a polite nod that conveys nothing.

“Shen Wei-jiaoshou?”

“Yes. You are?” Shen Wei dusts the remaining specks of fish food off his hands, and crosses to stand behind the sofa with his hands resting lightly on the straight line of its back. His reception is far more normal than Zhang Ruonan’s.

“Zhao Yunlan. Director of the Strategic Investigations Department, with the Xi’an PD. You may have heard of it?”

“Vaguely. You are involved with high-profile crimes?”

“That’s one way to put it, sure. Can we sit?”

Shen Wei motions him to the sofa; for himself, he sits in a short, stumpy armchair shaped like a half-moon. Zhao Yunlan sinks down onto the sofa’s long leather cushion, and leans back – nice and casual. “You have a nice office,” he says, looking around again. Clearly Shen Wei is several rungs above Zhang Ruonan on the food chain.

“Thank you.” Shen Wei waits in polite quiet. He’s tall and slim, and even sitting has the sleek look of a hound – sharp-eyed but controlled. Interesting, for a professor.

“Part of my job is to investigate concerns that could lead to significant reputational harm,” he says, slowly. Shen Wei watches him through his thin, wire-framed glasses, seemingly curious but unworried. “I wonder if there’s anything concerning you at the moment, relating to university conduct?”

“That’s a very broad inquiry. Of course there are matters of friction – we are a large, complex community. But nothing that would require a police investigation.”

“Nothing with fellow professors? Or students?”

“No,” says Shen Wei, shaking his head.

“Your area of expertise is gene mutation, isn’t it? What does that mean? You’re trying to change our DNA?”

Shen Wei smiles, and leaning forward, weaves his hands together. “No. My studies concern natural mutations across the genome. Specifically, identifying variations to advance opportunities for enhanced potential. For example, finding and growing drought-resistant trees, or parasite-resistant fish. I do perform some work with human genomes, but not gene editing. You would want to speak to someone like Li Qian for that. She works with an off-campus lab evolving approaches to gene editing, ultimately for use in humans.”

“She’s not working with human subjects now?”

“I’m not really sure. There may be some active studies. It’s a graduate lab and, as I said, off-campus, so I don’t have any connection to it. Li Qian has cut back her teaching hours this semester to spend more time there, I know.”

“If it’s off-campus, does that mean it’s not part of the university?” asks Zhao Yunlan. Shen Wei shakes his head.

“It’s just a matter of space and practicality. The lab is owned by the university, and staffed by various research teams. Although I believe they also have some partnerships with non-academic bodies.”

“I see,” says Zhao Yunlan, who doesn’t really. He studied political science; there was no lab work involved.

“May I ask why you’re looking into this?” Shen Wei looks very earnest. Zhao Yunlan bets he’s popular in the classroom. The kind of professor all the girls have crushes on. Handsome face, nice manners, intelligent. Not the kind of man Zhao Yunlan tends to meet in the course of his job.

“That’s confidential. But I suppose there are rules governing your research? You know – to protect the public? People involved in the research?”

Shen Wei gives him an odd look. “Yes, of course,” he says. “There are numerous requirements and reviews.” He shifts in his chair, the leather creaking. Outside the window a ray of sunlight slants in through a gap in the trees, briefly painting his arm and chest bright, royal blue.

Zhao Yunlan nods as if he naturally is aware of all of this. “And the university’s never been in trouble for violating them?”

“I don’t know. There are thousands of researchers affiliated with the university, Zhao-chuzhang. Some may have been implicated in activities which didn’t meet standards. Such things aren’t publicly announced, unless the media happens to find out.”

Zhao Yunlan smiles, spreading his hands knowingly. “Ah. Sweep it under the rug, is that it?”

Shen Wei stands up and crosses over to a wooden hutch holding a plain glass carafe half-full with water. Reaching up into the upper cabinet, he lifts down two glasses and fills them. He has a slim back, Zhao Yunlan notices, not to mention the attractive curve of his ass, which his tight trousers show nicely. Excellent tailoring.

Returning, Shen Wei hands one to Zhao Yunlan before taking his seat again. He sips before answering. “Various offences require reporting to different bodies, but mostly such things are dealt with internally. The accepted stance is that there is little to be gained by public announcements.”

Zhao Yunlan raises his eyebrows. “And is that your stance?” he asks. The wording was, after all, a little too pointed. Shen Wei gives just the slightest smile.

“Zhao-chuzhang is a skilled interrogator,” he murmurs.

“Please,” says Zhao Yunlan, grinning with a ruffian’s charm. One he hopes a man like Shen Wei is susceptible to. “This isn’t an interrogation. Just an… informal, information-gathering conversation. You’re being very helpful – don’t stop now.” He takes a drink of water, watching Shen Wei overtop his hand.

“Since you ask – I believe accountability is important. As is transparency, when it comes to research intended to benefit the public. Research with the public.”

“And how does Shen-jiaoshou define the public?” asks Zhao Yunlan.

Shen Wei waves a hand in a tidy little gesture seeming intended to signify it’s the concept that’s important rather than his interpretation of it. “It starts with one person. One participant; one member. After that, it merely grows.”

“Let me ask you something else, then.” Zhao Yunlan rests the glass on his knee, the round circle of its base cool through the denim of his jeans. “How would I know if this lab Li-jiaoshou is part of has been misbehaving?”

The professor looks back at him. For a moment Zhao Yunlan feels like he’s looking in a mirror. Each of them trying to assess the other, to read his intentions and his beliefs. Then Shen Wei uncrosses his legs, straightening up. “Do you think they have been?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

Outside the sun flickers through the fall leaves, throwing a shifting carpet of golds and bronzes onto the floor. Somewhere in the distance a bicycle bell trills, a sharp sound. Shen Wei is watching him, still.

“I suppose,” he says, eventually, “there are two considerations. This is true of any major research work – not specifically Li Qian’s,” he adds. “If a discrepancy has already been noted and reported, the Department Head would be aware of it. And, given your position, I believe he would be obliged to disclose it to you if you asked.”

“And if a discrepancy hasn’t been reported?” asks Zhao Yunlan, spearing the nuance in the sentence.

Shen Wei’s look now is tight, taut. A man pushed past the point of comfort. “Then, Zhao-chuzhang, I’m afraid I don’t see how you would be able to find out.” He sets down his glass on the low coffee table, positioning it perfectly in the centre of a coaster. There’s barely a ripple in the water.

Zhao Yunlan grins, shit-eating. “Shen-jiaoshou, it sounds like you’re underestimating me. Surely you should have more faith in the police!”

Slowly, Shen Wei slants a long look over him, from his feet to his head. Zhao Yunlan feels his heart kick in his chest, just a tiny flush of heat fluttering beneath his skin. “I mean no disrespect. It’s merely that academia is its own, closed world. One outsiders find it difficult to navigate – if not impossible.”

“I’m not ready to accept a system not subject to our laws,” says Zhao Yunlan, serious now.

Of course, it’s a difficult statement to make. The reality of SID is that they do deal with people who are, one way or another, above the law. The horribly trite truth is that there’s one law for ordinary people, and another for those who rule them – be it by dint of political power, or wealth, or simply fear. Zhao Yunlan’s job is, like a precarious set of scales, to try to find the balance in righting wrongs. To play the system, as best he can, to get the results that benefit those who have been harmed.

Shen Wei’s smile is subtle. Knowing. Like a fan to a flame, it kindles the low, snapping warmth simmering beneath Zhao Yunlan’s skin. “You would know more about that than me,” he says.

“Oh, I can hardly believe that. How could such a respected professor be ignorant of the basic facts of society?” He spreads his hands, describing the sheer impossibility of it.

“I’m a very ordinary academic, Zhao-chuzhang. And I’m afraid I can’t offer any further help.” He shifts in the chair, making to rise. This conversation is over.

“There is one more thing,” says Zhao Yunlan, as he stands. “I’d like to see Li-jiaoshou’s lab. Can you give me the address?”

Shen Wei gives him a look of surprise. “I can give you the address, but I’m afraid it won’t help you. Access is restricted to lab personnel.”

Damn.

***

Before he leaves, Zhao Yunlan visits the large office at the south end of the building. It’s separated from the hallway by a glass wall imprinted with the words Bio-Engineering Department Head. Inside are two secretaries and a large corner office hosting Ouyang Zhen, the Department Head.

Zhao Yunlan plays his cards closer to his chest, here. He merely proports to be carrying out a regulation-mandated inspection, and asks for reporting on any breaches of policies or protocols by active research projects.  

Ouyang Zhen, polite and full of smiles, assures him he will conduct a check and notify Zhao Yunlan of anything that turns up.

And that, for now, seems to be that.

***

It’s not that Zhao Yunlan doubts the disgruntled academic from Xianghua park. But he has plenty of cases with real, tangible evidence and a catalogue of measurable harms to deal with. He can’t go chasing spectres of accusations in the halls of learning. So he gives it a few days to see if anything bubbles to the surface, scum-like, while he and Chu Shuzhi compile evidence against a large corporation employing thousands of workers across Shaanxi who also happen to be pumping toxic waste into local rivers.

He is, he will admit, mildly curious about Zhang Ruonan’s obvious fear, but a review of both her course curricula and her online CV show no mention of CRISPR, or the lab Li Qian is affiliated with in town. Still, Zhao Yunlan uses a contact in the Dean’s office to pull the student lists for all her courses. As she had said, her students are all undergraduates. Not the type to be conducting research on human subjects.

All of which to say, Zhao Yunlan goes about his days working, smoking, drinking, occasionally remembering to eat something out of a greasy wrapper, and sleeping away the colourless hours after midnight in the double bed he shares with no one but his cat.

After a few days of bending, and creaking – but never breaking – under the weight of the case files piled atop his squad, he’s almost, almost forgotten about the university. About his anonymous source. About the project that could destroy China’s reputation.

Until, walking back to his bike in the moonlight on a Tuesday night, his breath clouding white in the chill air, he sees the flutter of paper just under the handlebars. It beats in the wind like something living, desperate for attention. Zhao Yunlan peels it off the bike, and flips it open.

Xianghua park. Midnight, it says, in the same perfect, crisp brush strokes.

Recollection slides into focus, smoothed by guilt. He stares down at the black ink, trying to remember if he saw any matching writing on the office doors he passed by on his sole visit to the university’s Bio-Engineering Department. But no – the handwritten notes had been ungainly scrawls in thin, mechanical pencil, or blunt sharpie.

Zhao Yunlan folds the note up, slips it into his pocket, and mounts the bike. Leaning forward, he starts the engine and embraces the welcome familiarity of the bike’s rumbling purr beneath his body, making his bones throb. He snaps up the kick stand, hits the throttle, and speeds off down the street.

***

Tonight, he arrives first. Instead of skulking like a snitch behind the slide, he lights up and sits on the swing. It’s too low to the ground for his long legs; he stretches them out in front, over the dip in the rubber surface that holds a small, glinting pool of moisture. He remembers the trick to raising the swings from his youth, wrapping the chains around and around, but police directors don’t play with swing sets. He sits, and smokes, and waits.

The night is quiet. Just the soft swish of the wind in the trees, the hum of distant traffic, the swing set clinking. Zhao Yunlan is used to this hour, used to the way the darkness stretches over the city like a fine silk scarf, enveloping it in blackness without warmth. The streetlamps seem to catch on the thin weave of it, glowing diffusely, little white bulbs of brightness.

Behind him, footsteps scuff on the rubber mat. Zhao Yunlan looks over his shoulder, a thin trail of smoke swerving upwards.

A tall man dressed in a long, dark coat with a hood is walking out of the shadows. He must have seen Zhao Yunlan from afar, because he’s making right for him. In the dim, distant LED glare, all Zhao Yunlan can see of him is that he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and walks with the easy stride of someone younger rather than older.

Zhao Yunlan gets up and turns, hand raised to grab his cig, and pauses as a momentary flash of horror cuts through him.

The man has no face.

An instant later, he sees the sheen of moonlight on what must be a mask – a black opera-style mask, covering the upper half of his informant’s face. The surface is rough rather than oil-slick; he thinks it may be beaded, or jewelled.

“Ge really values his privacy,” says Zhao Yunlan, as the sharp scent of nicotine gusts past his nose.

“Zhao-chuzhang was the one who pointed out that people who stir up difficulties in the upper echelons of my world have a tendency to disappear.”

Zhao Yunlan looks at him for a minute, then grabs one of the swing chains and drops back into his seat. Slowly, the informant in black steps over to sit on the swing beside him. The red tip of Zhao Yunlan’s cigarette is the only light source nearby, a tiny kiln glow in the cold night.

“Not many people try to casually summon me, Hei Lao-ge,” he says. The man jerks a little, and Zhao Yunlan grins. “I need to call you something, don’t I? Or would you rather give me your name?”

“I’m happy to receive a title from you,” says the man in the eponymous black coat. “And I regret any offense. But whatever you’ve done so far hasn’t had any perceptible effect.”

Zhao Yunlan pushes back on the swing, boots scraping the playground surface. The chains clink beside his ears, a nostalgic sound. “I understand that you’re invested in this, but I’ve got to tell you, I don’t work to your timetable. I work to mine. And frankly, my initial investigation didn’t turn up a lot of potential for follow-through. You were the one who suggested that if I made some noise, it might frighten off your bad actors. Well, I made some noise. The Department Head didn’t flinch.”

“Who else did you speak with?” asks his informant. He sits straight-backed, even on the uncomfortably low-slung swing, a posture that should look stupidly prissy but instead somehow looks almost… elegant?

Zhao Yunlan looks at him for a minute, debating whether to reply or not. He doesn’t want to give this guy the impression that the Director of SID answers to random snitches. But he’s also intrigued, at how effortlessly he’s been drawn into this man’s orbit. As if they were colleagues, rather than strangers.

“Zhang Ruonan,” he says at last, exhaling a stream of smoke, cigarette nestled between his fingers. “She’s hiding something, no doubt, but I don’t think it’s your problem. Seems much more… personal.” SID doesn’t deal much with sexual violence, but Zhao Yunlan has worked with more than enough victims to recognize the signs. “Don’t think she’ll talk to me, but someone ought to be checking up on her. Preferably a friend.”

He feels more than sees his source’s eyes on him. The whispering wind seems to slice right past the man without touching him; seated on the swing, he holds himself perfectly still. Then the crisp tip of his hood bows. “Thank you, for the suggestion,” he says, voice low. 

Zhao Yunlan carries on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I also spoke to Shen Wei-jiaoshou. He’s very… cautious. He wouldn’t give anything away, but if he’s not involved I would bet he has suspicions.” He sucks in a breath, warm with nicotine. The flare of the cigarette casts a mayfly-brief gleam in the man he’s called Hei Lao-ge’s eye.

“I see. Have you spoken to Li Qian?”

“She wasn’t there. Shen-jiaoshou told me there was no point trying to get into her lab. Given the security in the building, I took him at his word.” Zhao Yunlan exhales. Beneath him the pool of moisture ripples slightly; probably some subway car going by underground. Even at midnight the city is alive around them, sleepy people commuting home to warm beds in buses and trains and subways.

“She is regularly on campus; she does have classes to teach,” says Hei Lao-ge.

“Is she the one I need to talk to? Why not just tell me that in the first place? If you’re going to go so far as to snitch to me, at least give me all the details!”

The man beside him leans back just a little. It changes the shape of the shadows draped over him, the angle of his shoulders broader, flatter. “I don’t know who you need to talk to to apply sufficient pressure, Zhao-chuzhang. Everyone has their own individual breaking point.”

That, Zhao Yunlan knows, is true. One of his many talents is assessing them. Judging, with a watch-maker’s accuracy, when someone will snap. Ideally before they tear off and try to kick his skull in.

“So you’re really just here to put some pressure on me, is that it?”

“I regret my rudeness,” murmurs Hei Lao-ge. He doesn’t dispute the statement.

“Ge is very bold,” replies Zhao Yunlan.

Silence blossoms up around them like a night garden, dark leaves and blooms opening to the moon’s silver light. Zhao Yunlan plants his feet on the rubber mat and pushes himself back, swing set creaking under his weight. His source waits, shrouded in silence. is His

“Look,” says Zhao Yunlan, at last. “I still don’t even have anything approaching evidence that a crime has been committed. I don’t have the time to be stalking the university hallways trying to scare people into good behaviour with my intimidating mug. I’ll talk to Li-jiaoshou. After that…” he shrugs.

“Thank you,” says Hei Lao-ge. “I appreciate it isn’t much to go on. But I assure you – the violation is real.”

Zhao Yunlan sighs, shaking his head. “Doesn’t make it my problem to solve.” He stands, letting the swing fall away from him, boots gripping the rubber underfoot sturdily.

The thing about Zhao Yunlan is, he’s never been good at staying in his lane. He puts out the cigarette and shoves his hands in his pockets. Beside him the man in black gets to his feet, nothing but an outline against the distant blur of streetlights.

“No offense,” says Zhao Yunlan, “but I hope I won’t be seeing you again.”

***

Back on campus two days later, Zhao Yunlan grabs a coffee from an outdoor stand selling hot drinks and snacks. He forgot to have breakfast; his stomach is rumbling a low warning so he douses it with caffeine. The air is crisp, hinting at coming frost, and the sky overhead is watery. The leaves are starting to fall, now, lining the paths in carpets the colour of tangerine rind. Zhao Yunlan takes a seat on a bench, holding the warm cup in both hands and enjoying the wisp of steam as it caresses his cheek.

“Zhao-chuzhang?”

He looks up. Shen Wei is walking over on one of the paths criss-crossing the small green space where Zhao Yunlan has sat himself down. He’s wearing a knee-length fawn-coloured overcoat over a brown suit – three pieces, with a silver watch chain. He looks like a model, like he’s stepped down out of the pages of some glossy magazine. His expression is attentive, with a hint of surprise.

“Shen-jiaoshou! Fancy meeting you here. Please – join me.” He scoots over on the bench to make room. Shen Wei pauses, clearly considering it, then does as he’s asked and takes a seat. He folds his coat tails neatly beneath him and places his hands across his lap. No ring, Zhao Yunlan notes.

“Is there something I can help you with?” inquires Shen Wei, politely. He has a lovely face – a little pale from the biting cold, with rose petal warmth in the cheeks. The kind of professor even Zhao Yunlan would have shown up to class to be taught by. His eyes, behind his thin-framed glasses, are sharper than his pleasant affect.

“I’d like to know more about that off-campus lab,” says Zhao Yunlan. “I looked into it, but practically all I could find out was the name and address. Surely Shen-jiaoshou knows more?”

Shen Wei looks slowly from Zhao Yunlan out across the green space, watching students hurry here and there, bundled up in wool coats and canvas jackets. “As I told you before, I’m not involved in their work. I understand that they’re researching opportunities for gene alteration to improve human health.”

“So, what? They’re splicing peoples’ genes?”

Shen Wei looks back to him and nudges his glasses up. “Such testing is not likely to be at the human stage,” he says.

Zhao Yunlan swallows a mouthful of coffee. “Is that a firm no?” He sees Shen Wei’s uncertain look, and nods. “So – maybe. How do I find out more?”

“Why is it that the police are investigating?” asks Shen Wei. He looks… right, here. His well-cut clothes, his cleanly-sculpted face and intelligent eyes against the backdrop of tall glass buildings and manicured grounds. There’s nothing sordid about him, nothing greasy – so unlike most of the people Zhao Yunlan deals with. It’s a shame he’s a suspect.

“That’s my business. Please – just answer the question.”

Shen Wei shrugs. “Talk to Li Qian. Or any of the others working in the lab. Li Qian is here today – you should be able to see her.”

Zhao Yunlan lowers his cup to rest on his knee and tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. “And if I didn’t want to talk to her? What could I find out otherwise? Through other channels?” It’s… not exactly a gamble, asking the professor, because if he refuses to answer there’s nothing lost. But there’s something about this man’s careful, concise responses that makes Zhao Yunlan think he knows more than he’s saying. And that, just possibly, he might be willing to help.

“It wouldn’t be difficult to turn up publications authored out of the lab. Any student could find that for you. There are also registries of active human research trials.”

“And if they weren’t in those registries?”

Shen Wei blinks. “Then they wouldn’t be performing human trials.”

“But if they were?”

Very slowly, Shen Wei slips his hands down out of his lap to rest palm-down on the wooden slats of the bench. “Is that an accusation, Zhao-chuzhang?” he asks, softly.

“Just a question.”

Shen Wei shifts, his open coat falling to the side to show off the rich chestnut brown of his suit. An unusual colour; the professor’s sartorial style is certainly eye-catching. As is the rest of him. “If anyone were conducting human trials without registering them, it would be…”

“A big deal?” drawls Zhao Yunlan.

“An enormous ethical violation, as well as a national scandal.”

“So, a big deal,” repeats Zhao Yunlan. “I’m sure Shen-jiaoshou would do anything to prevent that.”

Shen Wei looks at him. “What did you have in mind?”

***

They’re back in Shen Wei’s office. The professor’s overcoat is hung up on his coat rack, beside the dark drape of Zhao Yunlan’s leather bomber jacket. Zhao Yunlan is fully aware that his tight, waffle-weave shirt is offensively casual beside Shen Wei’s three-piece suit, the colour of it like newly-polished mahogany in the soft autumn sunlight. But he doesn’t much mind, because he’s caught Shen Wei glancing at his biceps twice now, and the attention is delicious.

They’re both seated behind his desk, while Shen Wei navigates online journal repositories with a kind of painstaking fastidiousness. He’s a slow typer and slower still at intuiting where links will be, but he’s also the only help Zhao Yunlan has. And, in close proximity, he smells scrumptious – of oakmoss and cloves and a tender green garden scent. Watching Shen Wei struggle with the computer is the kind of thing that could drive a tightly-wound police officer around the bend, so instead Zhao Yunlan watches his long, fine hands work the keyboard and tries to catalogue the expense of his wardrobe.

“Here,” says Shen Wei at last, and Zhao Yunlan drags his gaze up to the screen. Shen Wei has created a list of article titles on a blank document. “These are the publications in the past three years with authors who also work at the lab.”

Zhao Yunlan scans the list of titles. They might as well be written in a foreign language, for all he can intuit from the mixture of scientific jargon and acronyms. “Okay,” he says, squinting at the screen, as if that might help him interpret what he’s seeing. “So which ones mess with human DNA, then?”

Shen Wei leans back. “None of them do. Most of them are bench science, using cell samples. A few are animal models.” He turns to face Zhao Yunlan. “As I told you, this type of experimentation is still in early phases.”

Zhao Yunlan snaps his fingers a few times, trying to spark a memory in the same way that he’d light a lighter. “You said – registration. Of active research.”

“Yes. I’ve checked that, too. No human studies are being run out of the lab currently.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” says Zhao Yunlan.

“It would be far more surprising if they had research that had advanced to the stage of human testing,” replies Shen Wei. He closes the open programs on his computer, revealing a blank blue background. Who has a blank background? “Or is Zhao-chuzhang going to suggest that, in fact, it has?” He swivels in his seat to look at the SID Director.

Zhao Yunlan spreads his hands in inquiry. “Well, has it? You don’t know.”

“You had better –”

“Speak to Li Qian. I know, I know.” He rises, hands on his thighs. Shen Wei gets up too, apparently out of politeness, as if Zhao Yunlan were a valued guest rather than a nosy policeman. The space behind Shen Wei’s desk is tight with two men and two chairs; they’re practically chest-to-chest. For just a moment, Zhao Yunlan is over-aware of the thump of his heart, the tightness of his shirt and his distressed jeans.

Fuck, he needs to get laid.

He steps back, pushing a chair out of the way, and from the coolness of the air on his face feels that his skin must have become hot. He pushes a hand through his hair and gives Shen Wei a tight, uneasy smile as he heads to grab his jacket. “Look – you’ve been very helpful,” he says. “I just don’t know if it’s enough.”

Shen Wei reaches out to put a hand on the back of the chair Zhao Yunlan was just inhabiting, his fingers folded over the wooden bar where Zhao Yunlan’s head had been resting. “I appreciate your intentions,” he intones. Against the dark wood walls and a bookshelf holding a mixture of fat leather-bound books and pottery, he looks like an old photograph. Like someone from an era long past, one where people respected the call of learning too much to pollute it with malfeasance.

Which is ridiculous, of course. Zhao Yunlan is a police officer, born and bred. And he knows, knows, there is no such thing as a time before crime.

It’s just that Shen Wei looks so – honest. Almost enough to convince Zhao Yunlan that such an era actually existed.

Almost.

***

Li Qian is not what he expected.

By now Zhao Yunlan has made her up in his mind as a senior scientist, competent, composed, seated behind a big desk in a lab coat. Big personality, probably, maybe big hair to match.

What he finds is a reedy young woman who seems not exactly nervous, but on edge. Her eyes dart from him, to the dual screens of her computer, to her phone, in quick succession. Her long hair is pulled back in a simple tie; her clothes are plain, non-descript. The kind of person you wouldn’t look at twice if you saw in the street.

Nothing about her screams Mad Scientist. But her hands, as Zhao Yunlan helps himself to a chair, tap rapidly at the keyboard – not hard enough to type, just rattling the keys. Her mouth is small, tight. Like a seam pulled a little too taut. “Yes?” she says, frowning pertly as he slumps into her chair. It’s less comfortable than the one in Shen Wei’s office. Institutional; characterless. It matches her space, which is white and without decoration except for a thin bookcase holding carefully-squared stacks of papers and some thick glossy-sided textbooks stacked on the bottom shelf. It feels clinical, almost, more like a medical office than a professor’s tutorial space.

“Li-jiaoshou?”

“Yes,” she says, glancing at her screens again – one after another – and then back at him. “Can I help you?”

“Zhao Yunlan. Director, with the police. SID.”

Her eyes snap to him sharply, and hold his gaze now. There’s a muscle jumping in her temple, a quick uneven flicker. “I have no interest in talking to the police,” she says.

“Well, I can understand that, but I haven’t even told you what it’s about. Surely you’ll hear me out, Li-jiaoshou?”

She purses her lips, fingers tapping again at the keyboard. “My time is very valuable.”

“I’m certain it is. But you know, other senior members of the department have been willing to give me some of theirs. Even your Department Head has been very… accommodating.” He grins, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs, ankle stop his knee.

“What are you looking into?” she asks. Although she’s stilled her hands for the moment her thin shoulders are high, her posture rigid. She looks like a sprinter about to take off at the sound of a starter pistol.

“Li-jiaoshou conducts research in an external lab, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How many people use that facility?”

She narrows her eyes, fingers pressing down against the desk so that her nails turn white. “I don’t know. There are 5 different research teams. Why do you ask?”

Zhao Yunlan ignores the question. “And what do you research there?”

“The use of CRISPR to address biological determinants of health.” She stares him straight in the eye, daring him to ask for a clarification.

Zhao Yunlan smiles. “Ah. That’s editing the human genome, yes? Trying to make us better, faster, stronger?”

For a moment she freezes, clearly taken aback. Then her teeth click shut and she lifts her chin. “Yes.” Slowly, she pushes back her keyboard with the points of her nails, laying her palms flat on the desk. “Do you have scientific training?”

“Oh, I know my way around a microscope,” lies Zhao Yunlan, flapping his hand dismissively. “Tell me more about this work you’re doing. Where do you get your test subjects from? In my day, there was always keen student interest in participating in research projects. You can buy a lot of snacks on the stipend.”

Li Qian looks at him, still as stone. Then she loosens up, a thin smile pasted across her face. “I’m afraid we haven’t reached the stage of trials in humans, yet,” she says.

“No? That’s funny – I heard that there was a campus lab doing CRISPR experiments on humans. Splicing in all types of DNA. Sounds very cutting edge. So much potential.”

“You’re misinformed, Zhao-chuzhang.”

He blinks widely. “Am I? But I’ve seen all the articles you’ve published. So much dedication. Years and years of work. Surely you must be ready. Isn’t that the point about research? To get out ahead of the pack? It’s no use discovering something someone else has already patented.”

“We must walk before we can run,” she says, dismissively. Her eyes are flickering again, to her phone, her monitors, a calendar pinned to the wall.

“Is that enough? In today’s cut-throat environment? With all the big universities competing for funding, for breakthrough programs? Aren’t we supposed to be becoming international leaders? You can’t do that if you wait around to do things in the way orthodoxy dictates. There have already been studies of gene editing in humans. Surely you must be ready to advance beyond them.”

Li Qian pinches her mouth closed tightly, as if gripping a blade between her lips. Something sharp, cutting. Her eyes are flinty as they bore into Zhao Yunlan.

“I don’t see,” she says, her voice flat and thin, “what this has to do with the police?”

Zhao Yunlan nods encouragingly. “Good question, good question! Surely no police director would take the time to drop in on a researcher in charge of such important, ground-breaking research if he didn’t have a reason. I invite Li-jiaoshou to consider my mandate – I deal with investigations pertaining to high-profile, political and influential people and institutions. Ones where the potential for reputational harm is… severe.” He smiles. “I’m sure Li-jiaoshou is aware exactly how much damage could be caused by rogue research that harms China’s credibility internationally. But of course, none of that is happening here.”

In the crisp white glow from the computer monitors, Li Qian’s face is rice-paper pale. She has a small face and petite frame; sitting perfectly still she reminds Zhao Yunlan of depictions of the goddess Xiwangmu, both terrifying and benign, creation and destruction mixed together. A multitude in a nondescript form. When she speaks her teeth glint, pearly, slivers of sharpness. “I would like to know who’s been suggesting this to you, Zhao-chuzhang.”

“Suggesting what? I don’t think I mentioned any accusation. I’m just here informally. Having some nice little chats with some of our country’s brightest minds. Just to preserve our reputation. On a completely different topic, I’d appreciate a tour of your lab. Not for any particular reason. Call it personal improvement, if you have to.”

Li Qian’s fingers curl slightly against the desk with a scratching sound. “Approved personnel only,” she says.

“Really? You won’t make an exception? Even for me? I promise – I can be very well-behaved. Of course, when things don’t go my way, that’s when I tend to get a bit noisy.” He sits up, chair creaking under him, and gives her his most wolfish grin. “So?”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t help you, Zhao-chuzhang.”

The smile fades, leaving just the edges of his lips curled upwards. “I see,” he says, softly. “Well, that’s too bad. Really too bad.” He gets up, pushing the chair neatly back into place in front of her desk. “Thanks for lending me some of your precious time, Li-jiaoshou. I hope we won’t be meeting again.”

Her eyes return to her monitors, the white light a sliver of silver in her eyes. “I’m sure we won’t,” she murmurs.

***

Damn!

Zhao Yunlan is, often, forced to eat his pride in this job, but familiarity offers no comfort. It tastes of acid and ashes, as always, an ugly texture on his tongue.

It wasn’t so much that he expected Li Qian to collapse and sob out a confession, but he had expected – something. In her office, her voice, her eyes. A hint, at least.

All he’s sure of, though, is that she’s lying to him. It could certainly be about her research including human participants, but it could just as easily be any number of other things. Academics have power and prestige – those are things that make wrongdoing child’s play. He knows for sure that she wanted him the hell out of her office. He’s only surprised she talked to him for as long as she did.

He takes the stairs down to stretch his legs. As he enters the stairwell, though, he looks up rather than down. He could easily stop in and see Shen Wei. Just for completeness’ sake. To see whether the professor has any other leads to suggest.

But… no. He’s allowing himself to be carried away by his personal interests. The fact that Shen Wei is a deeply appealing person – both physically and intellectually – isn’t a reason for Zhao Yunlan to haunt him. Especially with an investigation ongoing.

So instead he steps outside, zips up his coat, and heads towards the parking lot where his bike is sitting, waiting for him. No white paper notes, no one watching him. He starts the engine, and speeds off down the street.

***

It’s another long day. All his days are long days. Lunch goes forgotten; around 4pm he has a steamed baozi and some tea to settle his stomach. As if anything were capable of quelling that beast.

He heads out to speak to some contacts at the Xi’an municipal office, just doing some gentle sniffing into the university. What kind of presence it has in the political community, whether it’s the head of the dog or the tail.

Definitely the head, is what he finds out. With fangs of ivory, and a nose for trouble.

Zhao Yunlan exits onto the street to find that the lamps are lit, darkness having fallen while he was inside. Still the city is full of vibrance and life – lanterns and warm windows glowing down the street, car headlights and bicycle lamps flashing in the street. Neon signs and coloured bulbs gleam above restaurants, shops, clubs, accompanied by a forest of sandwich boards shouting the evening specials – beer, cocktails, noodles, fresh crab and braised beef.

Zhao Yunlan tries to ignore the words on the signs as he weaves between them, heading for the side-street where he left his bike. His stomach is churning now, beating its war drums as it prepares to fight back against days of absent-minded abuse. The simple sight of menu items makes his guts clench; a door opens and the smell of frying fat hits him in the face like an open-handed slap. He reels away, crossing the street almost blind, nearly falling under the wheels of a honking van. On the other side he makes for the cool calm darkness of a park. There are no benches or seats but his stomach is flipping against itself, tangling his insides in knots. He feels weak; shaky. Even the cold air on his cheeks isn’t enough to keep him alert. He sinks down onto the curb and folds in half, sick and miserable.

Time passes.

Even weak, even suffering, Zhao Yunlan’s instincts are always lying beneath the surface of his skin, sharp and watchful as the twitching whiskers on a tiger. As such he notes the footsteps slowing down as they approach, even though his face is pressed against his knees. His hands fist, thumb outside. Ready for a fight.

But when he raises his head, muzzy and with spotting vision, it’s not a threat he sees.

Shen Wei is standing there, in his fawn overcoat, an umbrella over his arm and a paper bag full of groceries held against his chest. As he looks down at Zhao Yunlan, the first raindrops hit the SID director’s upturned face. Shen Wei frowns, quickly grabbing his umbrella and unfurling it.

Instead of covering himself and his flimsy paper bag, he extends it over Zhao Yunlan’s head. “Zhao-chuzhang – are you alright? Can I help you? You look –” his lips press together, as if politeness is quashing whatever statement he was about to make. He bends, placing his groceries on the ground, and puts a hand on Zhao Yunlan’s shoulder as if he could detect Zhao Yunlan’s ailment with a touch. “I could take you to the hospital?”

In the street, cars are passing by, engines rumbling. On the stretched fabric of the umbrella overhead, rain is pattering. Zhao Yunlan looks up into Shen Wei’s face and sees naked concern, mixed with confusion. His hand is steadying, supportive.

“It’s just my stomach,” says Zhao Yunlan, forcing himself to get up. Shen Wei catches his elbow and helps him. The velvety tapping on the umbrella overhead grows more intense, the streets already slick, reflections dancing on the wet surface. “Gastritis. Nothing to worry about.”

“Then let me call you a cab.”

His bike is less than a block away, but he’s in no condition to ride. He feels chilled, hollow except for the constant grinding against his insides, like a rusty plane scraping away at him. His head feels full of cotton wool.

In a moment of weakness, he leans in against Shen Wei. Just for a moment. Just… because he’s there. No other reason.

The wash of relief – shelter from his exhaustion, support for his rubbery legs – is so intense he has to close his eyes against its soft-sided swell. Being a cop promotes independence – sometimes such intense independence that it’s fatal to relationships. Zhao Yunlan knows that reality; it’s the one he lives every day and wraps up after midnight alone in his bed.

He hadn’t realised, until just this moment with the smell of oakmoss and cloves soft in his nose, how wearing it is.

“Zhao-chuzhang?” murmurs Shen Wei, sounding uncertain.

“Fine. ‘M fine.”

He lets himself be towed into the back seat of a Didi. All he has to do – all he has to do – is let go of Shen Wei’s arm and close the door. He can go home, curl up in bed, and wait out the gruelling pain that’s a marathon rather than a sprint, always.

He just… can’t. When it comes time to release his grip and let Shen Wei’s coat slip through his fingers, he baulks. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing, right now, makes sense. All he is is some hollow, crumpled shell, adrift in a downpour. He needs an anchor. So he holds on.

After a moment, Shen Wei steps into the cab with him. His groceries on his lap, Zhao Yunlan can smell the earthy scent of green carrot tops and leafy vegetables. He wonders, as he leans back and closes his eyes, who Shen Wei is going home to cook for.

***

Zhao Yunlan doesn’t exactly sleep – not in an unfamiliar vehicle with a near-stranger beside him – but he does slip down the ladder of consciousness into a dull-edged muddy kind of stagnation, both mental and physical.

He shakes out of it when Shen Wei squeezes his shoulder. “We’re here,” he says, his voice quiet in the close interior of the cab. Zhao Yunlan looks out the window and sees familiar buildings, draped with the darkness of rain. He struggles to pull his phone out and pay off the driver. Shen Wei helps him out, and by the time Zhao Yunlan is standing and blinking into the upper layers of awareness, the cab has driven off. Leaving Shen Wei standing beside him in the wet night. His paper grocery bag is already folding inwards and looking distinctly the worse for wear. Shen Wei’s hair is beaded with raindrops, his shoulders tinted dark.

“Come in with me,” says Zhao Yunlan. “At least until the rain stops.”

Shen Wei opens his mouth – maybe to agree, maybe to protest, Zhao Yunlan can’t tell. Because right at that moment his stomach does a flip, and he winces as he digs his forearm into his belly. Shen Wei catches his shoulder, as if expecting him to collapse. “Alright,” he says. “Alright.”

They go up together, three flights of stairs accompanied by the rustling of Shen Wei’s grocery bag and the ugly grind of Zhao Yunlan’s guts. Then they’re in the hall and he’s unlocking the door and pushing it open and

- remembering why he never invites people over.

His place is a pigsty. The floor is covered with shed packaging and wrappers and even some clothes. Every surface holds dirty cups and plates and take-out containers. His bed, in the corner by the window, is unmade. He feels a sudden, stinging urgency to keep Shen Wei from even glancing in the bathroom. “Ahaha, I haven’t been home much lately,” he says, attempting to clear a counter and ending up slaloming into it and pushing the detritus onto the floor as his arm skids over the laminate surface. His vision strobes through shades of black, like a drop of pure ebony ink dribbled into a pool of water, unfurling in increasingly diluted waves of darkness.

“Zhao-chuzhang!”

He catches himself and tries to laugh; it comes out as a raspy whimper. Shen Wei has put down his burden somewhere; he catches Zhao Yunlan and helps him over to his bed where he folds into a low slouch.

“Really, maybe you should go to the hospital…”

“It’s fine. Nothing new. I have some medicine?” He glances up, is overwhelmed by both the mess and the simple fact of Shen Wei standing in the centre of it like a marble statue in a garbage heap. “I’ll just look,” he manages, then sways under a wave of light-headedness.

When he glances up, Shen Wei is rustling at arm’s length in his fridge. Zhao Yunlan watches him with an exhaustion-tinted gaze as he moves through the kitchen, turning on the kettle and lifting cup after cup in some kind of inspection.

He zones out for a while; his focus creaks back into place to find Shen Wei in front of him with a mug. “Here,” he says. “I followed the instructions on the packet.”

Zhao Yunlan doesn’t want the medicine. It tastes bitter as coffee grounds, and it only works some of the time, and it makes him tired. All he really wants to do is curl up on his soft mattress and try to pass out. But he can’t do that with a stranger here. And one who was kind enough to make up his medicine. So he reaches out and takes the mug in two careful hands, cradling its warmth. He takes a sip, makes a face, and lowers it.

“When was the last time you ate?” asks Shen Wei, standing above him, haloed by Zhao Yunlan’s ceiling lights. He looks the professional professor, now, considering a student begging for an extension on an already-overdue assignment. Zhao Yunlan gives a tired, stretched grin.

“Some tea and a snack this afternoon. Before that, mm… coffee and a cong youbing yesterday. Mm, and instant noodles the day before.” He snaps out of the haze of memory and sees the look on Shen Wei’s face. “I really am very busy, Shen-jiaoshou. And like we say, justice is the most important thing.”

“Justice doesn’t exist in a vacuum,” replies Shen Wei, very dryly. “It certainly won’t come about if you’re unable to get out of your bed.”

Zhao Yunlan bobs up, despite the weight of his fatigue draped over his shoulders like bags of dry cement mix. “That’s –”

Shen Wei’s look spears him before he’s risen more than a hand’s breadth. “Entirely true. Please. Drink your medicine. I have some time – I’ll take advantage of your kitchen.”

“Shen-jiaoshou,” protests Zhao Yunlan, weakly. Shen Wei is already pulling off his coat and suit jacket, hanging them on Zhao Yunlan’s coat rack, and rolling up his sleeves neatly to cuff them above his elbows. He has clean, strong forearms, Zhao Yunlan can’t help but notice. And his waistcoat is perfectly fitted.

So he sits, feeling horribly out of control, and drinks his medicine while Shen Wei boils more water and scrubs out a pan in the sink. Da Qing slinks out from under the bed, where apparently he had withdrawn to upon Shen Wei’s arrival, and hops up to sit beside Zhao Yunlan. The two of them watch the professor sweep through their home like a whirlwind – clearing, cooking, cleaning.

Zhao Yunlan finishes his dose and puts the mug down on the bedside table. His stomach is still churning, a rough-edged discomfort buried in his belly. He feels like he’s being pulled down, slowly sinking inwards. He would be more comfortable lying down. He can still keep an eye on Shen Wei if he’s lying down. And he’ll feel better, he knows it.

Zhao Yunlan lifts his legs and flops down onto his pillow, still watching Shen Wei who now seems to be chopping something on a wooden block Zhao Yunlan didn’t even know he had.

If he closes his eyes, he’ll still be able to hear Shen Wei. And he’ll feel better. Be better rested. The lights are bright, their glare intense.

He closes his eyes. Just for a few minutes.

***

“- Yunlan? Zhao Yunlan?”

He startles awake, and feels a warm weight disappear from his side.

Shen Wei – in a white shirt and waistcoat, complete with neat little sleeve garters, is standing beside the bed looking uncertain. Da Qing is stretching even as he prowls around his ankles, sniffing at his boots.

Zhao Yunlan drags a hand through his hair and unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He feels naked as a peeled shrimp, caught sleeping while a stranger was in his home. Stupid. Unbelievably stupid.

And yet… looking past Shen Wei, he can see that his kitchen is pristine, is actually sparkling. All the garbage is gone, the dirty dishes and cups cleaned and the counters polished. “I cannot believe you,” he says.

“I made soup,” replies Shen Wei, as if that’s a normal response. As if any of this is normal. “You should eat. Can you?”

Zhao Yunlan’s stomach’s pains have quietened, although there’s still a low-level ache hanging on with blunt teeth. “I – yes, but –”

“Good.” Shen Wei holds out his hand. Slowly, Zhao Yunlan reaches out and takes it, letting himself be pulled to his feet.

His stocking feet.

Shen Wei took off his boots. While he was asleep. And Zhao Yunlan didn’t even notice.

They cross over to the island, where Shen Wei has set a bowl of soup, a bowl of rice, and a glass of water – clearly ignoring the prominently-displayed scotch decanter. “Shen-jiaoshou,” says Zhao Yunlan, when the professor pulls out a stool for him. “You have to eat too. I insist. I’ve already behaved like a hog to you. I can’t possibly eat your own food in front of you. Unless – you have somewhere to be?” He swivels to look out the window, but it’s too dark for him to tell if it’s still raining or not. Da Qing, seated on the bed again, gives a yawn and licks a paw.

“I don’t. But truly –”

“No, I insist.” Zhao Yunlan stumps around into the kitchen, producing newly-cleaned bowls and a second glass. Shen Wei is provided with soup and rice and water, and Zhao Yunlan drags out the second stool and pointedly waits for Shen Wei to sit. The broth smells good – rich chicken with a hint of legume, but without fattiness or spice.

Zhao Yunlan takes a small bite of warm white rice, testing to see whether his stomach will revolt. It deigns to allow him to swallow, which he takes as a success. He follows it up with a spoonful of broth, and manages to get that down too. They’re in business.

“Shen-jiaoshou is a marvel,” he murmurs, smiling as he has another swallow of soup. Shen Wei raises his eyebrows.

“They’re simple dishes. Anyone willing to invest the effort could easily manage them.”

“Wow, that feels pointed.” Zhao Yunlan waggles his eyebrows humorously. “I admit it. I’m a slob. And lazy, in my personal life. And if something has to be squashed out of my schedule between food, work and sleep, it’s going to be food.”

Shen Wei balances a pair of narrow chopsticks on his fine-cut hands, and looks at Zhao Yunlan through the lens of his glasses. “Without food, you won’t have a need to worry about a schedule. Zhao-chuzhang, surely you can see you need to take better care of your health?”

He looks so earnest, sitting on Zhao Yunlan’s barstool, with a backdrop of Zhao Yunlan’s lifting equipment and a bookshelf holding an eclectic range of items from a blackjack to the motor for a cat water fountain. As if truly, all he wants is for Zhao Yunlan to be well-fed and taken care of.

The last time he had someone in his life who was worried about Zhao Yunlan’s well-being, he was a snotty-nosed ten year-old who had no idea how much the big bad world was about to kick the shit out of him. If you had asked him a week ago which he would rather, someone to care about him or a night out on the town, he would have taken the boozer every time. Now that he has Shen Wei here, though, beside him cradling his chopsticks and eating out of his chipped bowls, it’s… nice. More than nice. Homey, heartwarming.

Which is ridiculous, he reminds himself, because he hardly knows this man.

“I’ll give it some thought,” he says. “But then, I’m sure Shen-jiaoshou really can’t understand my tribulations. He’s clearly someone who has no bad habits, who can cook and clean and inspire students and wear a suit with distinction.” Zhao Yunlan grins, sloppy and – he hopes – sexy.

Shen Wei’s smile is small, like the curled tip of a petal, as he ducks his head slightly. “You give me too much credit,” he says. “I have at least my share of flaws – among them lecturing my host, apparently.”

“Which of us is the host, and which is the guest? I would say arguments could be made for either case.” Zhao Yunlan lifts his bowl of rice – a bowl cleaned by Shen Wei, rice cooked by him – by way of example. “In any case. Shen-jiaoshou is far too magnanimous. I’m sorry to have cavalierly hijacked so much of your time. I hope I haven’t made you late for someone important.”

Shen Wei looks at him a little blankly.

“A wife? A girlfriend?” prompts Zhao Yunlan. Shen Wei shakes his head, dipping his chopsticks back into his rice bowl and taking a bite.

“Nothing like that,” he says, when he’s swallowed. “Like Zhao-chuzhang, my job takes up most of my time. Which reminds me – I hope you were able to speak to Li Qian.”

Zhao Yunlan curses himself for asking too pointed a question, and prompting such a severe deflection. Still, he doesn’t let his disappointment show on his face. “Ah – I was. She’s very… reticent.”

“Not many academics will appreciate the police looking into their work.”

“You’ve been very helpful.” He doesn’t quite mean it to come out as an accusation, but it does all the same. Still, Shen Wei only inclines his head.

“I choose to believe that the innocent have nothing to fear.”

Zhao Yunlan blinks. “That’s – a bit naïve, don’t you think?” Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wants to take this perfect, pristine man by the collar and shake him for being so foolish.

But Shen Wei merely smiles, neat as a newly-starched collar. “Let me rephrase, then. From what I’ve seen of Zhao-chuzhang, I choose to believe in your upstanding nature.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You let me into your home.”

“You took me home,” counters Zhao Yunlan.

“You gave me free rein of your kitchen, without supervision.”

“And you cooked a meal and, incidentally, did more cleaning in an hour than I’ve done since summer.” Zhao Yunlan waves his hand at his shiny, spotless kitchen.

Shen Wei looks at him, earnest and amused. “I don’t think you’re disproving my argument,” he says.

Zhao Yunlan shakes his head. “Really, you’re unbelievable. I don’t know whether to be astounded by you, or worried for you.”

“Believe me,” says Shen Wei, dryly, “the feeling is mutual.”

Zhao Yunlan gives a bark of laughter, and lifts his soup bowl to drink the remainder of the broth. It sits light in his belly, warm and comforting.

***

Shen Wei leaves not long after, although only after extracting a promise from Zhao Yunlan that he will clean the dishes.

Usually, Zhao Yunlan would laugh him off as a sucker, and flop into bed without an ounce of guilt. Tonight, though, even after Shen Wei is gone he can feel the spectre of the professor’s presence, the warmth and the reassurance of his touch. He’s left his mark on this place, the spotless counters and the reorganized fridge. Zhao Yunlan notes that he even left some of his groceries behind – a packet of tomatoes, some carrots, a container of tofu. Fresh food that’s easy to eat.

Truly – unbelievable.

So Zhao Yunlan washes the dishes and even dries them and stacks them away, because just for one night at least, he’s enjoying the fantasy that he has someone in his life to take care of him. Someone to look forward to returning to every night, ready with delicious meals that actually tempt his fickle stomach, able to make his disaster of an apartment into a home. Someone he’s eager to please. In any way – in every way.

While he dries off his water-warmed hands, he lets his imagination off its leash and conceives immediately of several of the many ways he could please Shen Wei.

He turns into bed with the delicious glow of latent arousal curling in his veins. His mind wanders over lush, aching scenarios, all of which end in the same way – Shen Wei in his bed, fucking him senseless.

So he jerks himself off to it. So what? No one will ever know. Especially not Shen Wei, who he won’t be seeing again.

***

He takes a cab to the neighbourhood where he left his bike the next morning.

Or at least, he tries to. They’re about ten minutes away when he sees something big and black swerving across the centre line. His driver curses, yanks the wheel, and the car skips over the curb and dings a lamppost. The cab fishtails as it’s struck just behind the rear door, a squeal of metal tearing through the air loud enough to deafen.

Then they’re sitting still, and for a moment there’s just a brittle, juddering silence.

Zhao Yunlan shoves open the door and tumbles out. The back of the car is crumpled like tin foil, the wheel at a sickening angle. When he turns around his driver has fallen out onto the pavement, staring in shock.

Behind them, in the distance, a black sedan is speeding off.

***

Feeling nervy and not enjoying it, Zhao Yunlan checks over his bike quickly before riding in to work; once there, he locks it up in the PD’s fenced-in lot.

He’s being paranoid. Obviously. But there’s a reason senior police officers aren’t naturally trusting – the ones who are get weeded out early on in their careers and if they’re lucky there’s enough of them left to be discharged.

Anyway. He falls easily into his usual rhythm, broken only by stopping by the cafeteria for a bowl of noodles at lunch. Chu Shuzhi looks at him funny, and asks if he’s finally trying to bulk up.

He’s been considering his next move with the human research violations. Specifically, he’s been considering whether he has a next move. Hei Lao-ge had suggested that if he did a good enough job frightening people, the problem would go away. He finds it hard to think how he could have been more explicit with Li Qian without opening himself up to a formal reprimand from the university. He’s sure she got the message.

He’s just not sure it will be enough.

Still, he has other work. Piles and piles of it, cases assigned by his boss who is expecting formal resolutions to be logged. He can’t spend endless energy playing a bogeyman at the Department of Bio-Engineering.

He does find time though, late in the afternoon, to drive by the lab that’s at the heart of all this angst. It’s an unprepossessing building in grey concrete, with almost no windows and quite a lot of bright exterior lights and even a few cameras. He sees a key pad by the door, which looks like solid metal.

Zhao Yunlan sits down the street astride his bike, engine off, just watching. They’re in an industrial part of town – there aren’t many pedestrians. The vehicles are heavy, tires muddy and bodies painted pale with dust. Slowly the cold wraps itself around him like a wet sheet, slipping in beneath his jean jacket, chilling the bike’s leather seat when he shifts against it. The engine pings as it cools rapidly. He refuses to give into the urge to chafe his arms, to curl inwards and preserve heat. He sits, and waits, and watches. Sooner or later, people have to come or go. It’s the end of the day. He wants to get a sense of the type of people who work here. Are they meek little scientists, like Zhang Ruonan? Or cleverly neurotic, like Li Qian? Or something else entirely?

He watches a couple leave – man and a woman, in matching black coats. An elderly man, alone. And then another couple – a tall man and a slight woman.

The man is wearing a familiar fawn overcoat; the woman’s dark hair is pulled back and her dress is neutral, nondescript.

Shen Wei and Li Qian.

Shen Wei doesn’t work at the lab. He told Zhao Yunlan as much – and Zhao Yunlan confirmed it on the university website. So why is he here? Curiosity, after all Zhao Yunlan’s poking and prodding? Or something more sinister? Shen Wei is so good at seeming naively upstanding, refreshingly well-meaning.

What if he’s actually just an exceptionally good actor?

Zhao Yunlan refuses, absolutely refuses, to examine the gritty sinking feeling that drags downwards through him to sit like a stone in his gut, cold and solid and uncomfortable.

Shen Wei and Li Qian break apart, waving; Li Qian buzzes back into the lab and disappears behind the heavy door, while Shen Wei turns to walk down the street.

Straight towards Zhao Yunlan.

He has a moment to act. He could pull on his helmet and leave. Hell, he could just step off the bike and duck into an alleyway.

Zhao Yunlan remains where he is, seated on the bike. Shen Wei makes it a few meters more down the sidewalk before he sees him; his step slows for a moment, then he jogs across the street and makes for Zhao Yunlan.

“Zhao-chuzhang!”

Only now, slowly, does he dismount. He had been holding his helmet in his lap; he puts it down on the seat behind him. He feels hard, like the deep ice that stretches over old mountains, never-melting, craggy and unforgiving. “Shen-jiaoshou. Such a surprise.”

Beneath the overcoat Shen Wei is wearing his blue suit, today with a knit vest with an argyle pattern. He looks like he belongs in a commercial for English tea, or possibly fine china. Something recherche, and too expensive to be subjected to the wear and tear of daily life.

“Considering a new project?” asks Zhao Yunlan, with a tiny smile sharp as the lid of an opened can.

“Pardon? No – I have no need of additional facilities for my work. I was… interested. In the work here, after our conversations. Li Qian was kind enough to invite me for a tour.” Shen Wei pulls his coat closed, doing it up against the chill breeze. But he shows no impatience with this conversation, with being stopped on a cold evening in a less than salubrious district to talk to a cop.

“I see. So you’re not planning to sign on with her?”

Shen Wei shakes his head gently. “Not at all. I merely wanted to understand the breadth of her research.”

Zhao Yunlan glances from Shen Wei to the building, and back again. “And do you?”

“I know what she told me,” he says, slowly.

“I see. And I suppose, as her colleague, that you believe that?” Zhao Yunlan stands stiffly, acid slowly creeping up his throat to coat it with a thick, sulfurous layer.

“Zhao-chuzhang…”

“No. You’ve been great. Wonderfully accommodating, very diplomatic. You’ve gone out of your way to show that you trust me. But you know what she’s doing in there – I know you know – and you’re here rubbernecking like a true scientist – always wanting to have an eye on the competition. Shen Wei, you said you believed public accountability was important. Well. What have you done to stop her? Huh? You –”

Behind him, down the street, he sees a vehicle turn the corner, headlights on high beam. The glare dazzles his eyes; he can just barely see that it’s a black car, low-slung.

Not at all like the boxy industrial trucks that have been roaming up and down the road.

“Zhao-chuzhang –” says Shen Wei, looking very serious, now.

In the distance, the car starts to accelerate.

“I was the one who called you in. In Xianghua park. I –”

Zhao Yunlan looks at him for just a flash of a second, and sees worry mixed with resignation.

There’s no time for thought. Only instinct.

He shoves the helmet off the bike and swings his leg over. Reaching back, he grabs Shen Wei and pulls him up behind. “Get on.”

“What, I –”

Behind them, the car’s engine is roaring throatily. Zhao Yunlan turns the key in the ignition, and hits the throttle. Shen Wei grabs him around the waist, and then they’re flying down the road, icy wind ripping at their faces, their clothes. Behind them the black car is chasing, its headlights burning white.

Zhao Yunlan feels like he’s been ripped in two, torn like a sheet of paper. Half of him is focused on driving, bent low to the bike’s handlebars and shifting up rapidly through the gears to tear at frankly suicidal speeds through the wide streets.

The other half is unable to free itself from an incredible awareness of Shen Wei pressed against him, his chest to Zhao Yunlan’s back, hips to his ass, thighs nudged close to his thighs. He’s so firm, his grip around Zhao Yunlan’s waist wonderfully tight. Almost proprietary.

There’s a turn coming up and Zhao Yunlan feigns left before pulling sharply to the right. The bike almost spins out beneath him but he rights it, correcting the angle of the turn. He cuts down on his speed almost immediately, taking advantage of the momentary lead he has to curve into a narrower side-street. Then into an alley and out the other end, to the right again slower now, to quieten the biting roar of the bike’s 1340cc engine. He looks over his shoulder and sees Shen Wei doing the same behind him, the curve of his ear a scoop of satiny pale in the darkness.

He makes a few more tight turns, criss-crossing the neighbourhood, before pulling back onto a main road and heading east. Towards the city centre, towards safety.

***

Zhao Yunlan pulls into the PD’s parking lot, kills the engine, and kicks out the stand.

Only then does he force himself to unclench his white-knuckled grip on the handlebars. His back creaks when he straightens, muscles cramped too tight for too long. Behind him Shen Wei pulls back, the circle of his arms slipping away from Zhao Yunlan’s waist. Then he’s stepping off the bike and his presence is gone.

Zhao Yunlan’s body throbs with its absence, the sudden disappearance of firmness and warmth. He takes a breath and slides off on the opposite side, the body of the bike a barrier between them.

In the buttery light of the parking lot, Shen Wei looks like something half-wild. His hair is mussed and tangled, his coat pulled askew, one side of his white collar flipped up against the long column of his throat. His face is pale but his cheeks and the tip of his nose are rosy; Zhao Yunlan imagines if he put his cheek to Shen Wei’s he would feel the furnace heat of his skin.

He swallows.

“Come inside,” he says.

Inside, the Xi’an Central PD smells like waxy floor polish and sweaty socks. It’s a large, rambling building with worn carpets and walls covered in dents that have been filled in with mis-matched spackle. The first floor is taken up by the uniformed squad, the second by more specialized departments. The third houses administration, on-site evidence filing, and SID. Zhao Yunlan, legs a bit shaky from the evaporating adrenaline, lights up on the stairs as he leads Shen Wei upwards.

On the third floor Zhao Yunlan turns left, past the enormous beast of a photo copier/printer and a little bay of filing cabinets, and over to the corner eked out for SID. There are four desks in the common area, all empty at the moment, and a glass-walled office with his name on the door. He shoves the door open and rounds the desk to collapse into his chair. Shen Wei neatly shuts the door before taking a seat in one of the two interview chairs.

He’s had a moment to think. About what Shen Wei said, in the terrifying instant before a car tried to run them both down. “So,” he says, leaning back. “Hei Lao-ge, is it?”

Shen Wei lifts his chin and gives a small, almost timid, smile.

“You know, you really could have told me. There was no need for all this cloak-and-daggers stuff.”

Shen Wei tilts his head slowly to the side, that same smile still gracing his lips. “Wasn’t Zhao-chuzhang the one who told me not to be naïve? Not to trust even you? I didn’t like to say, but yes, I can be cautious. I like to have the opportunity to assess people, before I make my decision.”

Zhao Yunlan’s fingers tighten, threatening to crush the cig that’s smouldering slowly, releasing a little curlicue of smoke. He doesn’t have to ask Shen Wei what the results of his assessment were. Not after last night.

“You were the one who came to me,” he says, eventually.

“And it was the right choice.” Shen Wei’s eyes are steady and bright.

Zhao Yunlan laughs; the chuckle rings low in the room, with a tinge of sarcasm. “You’re really saying that now, after we were both nearly run down?”

“Well, if nothing else it does prove that I was correct.”

Zhao Yunlan looks to the heavens for guidance. They – in the earthly form of his speckle-marked, nicotine-stained ceiling – offer none. “Yes,” he says, returning his gaze to Shen Wei. “It sure does. Unfortunately, as evidence goes it’s not court admissible.”

Shen Wei nods. “I agree. Which is why I took this.” He reaches into the pocket of his overcoat, and pulls out a thumb drive. “I’m not sure what’s on it, but it was in a container marked ‘back-up files.’ Hopefully, it will be helpful?”

Zhao Yunlan goggles at the tiny black scrap of plastic, then at Shen Wei. Slowly, his shock turns to a wide, exuberant glee. He waggles his finger at Shen Wei. “You, Shen-jiaoshou, are one of a kind.”

***

Unsurprisingly, the thumb drive is password protected. Zhao Yunlan drags Lin Jing into the office, heartlessly ignoring his protests about gaming tournaments and bragging rights. While the geek sweats and swears at his computer, Zhao Yunlan takes Shen Wei down to the cafeteria for a late dinner.

The cafeteria is open seven to ten, but there’s only a hot meal service from ten to six. Now, stretching into evening, there’s just pre-packaged and refrigerated offerings – cup noodles, packaged buns, cold dumplings with soy sauce, mixed cooked vegetables.

Shen Wei looks over the selection with an unimpressed face. “I see Zhao-chuzhang has more trials than I understood,” he says gravely, staring down at the packages of damp, greasy-looking food.

“We could order in. Let’s order in,” says Zhao Yunlan, throwing an arm over Shen Wei’s shoulder and turning him around. It feels surprisingly natural, Shen Wei in his arms, following his lead.

They order cu cho mian with thick slices of crunchy cabbage and a decadent amount of ginger to flavour the thick sticky sauce; sauteed mo gu ji pian with extra mushrooms; and dou fu dan bing, the omelette fluffy and warm. They set the dishes up on Zhao Yunlan’s desk, along with rice and a small portion of pickles, and steal some bowls and chopsticks from the cafeteria – no one’s there to miss them anyway. Zhao Yunlan tells Shen Wei there’s some green tea in the sideboard out in the main office, and by the time he’s finished cracking open all the packs and distributing bowls, plates, chopsticks and napkins, Shen Wei is back with a steaming tea pot and two small cups.

Things at work have never been fun. They’ve been exciting, and rewarding, and yes even challenging in a way that has kept Zhao Yunlan from ever getting bored and giving up. But never fun.

And yet, sitting in his office sharing steaming dishes and fragrant tea with Shen Wei, accepting the reminders to eat vegetables as well as protein and carbs, their hands bumping as they hand across containers, it’s fun to be here. Shen Wei is remarkably unruffled by the death threat, and Zhao Yunlan finds himself happy to have the professor to work beside, to help him decode the craziness of the university’s secrets and staff.

There has to be something wrong with him, that he’s enjoying this.

He leans forward, and pours out more tea for Shen Wei.

***

Chu Shuzhi shows up a while later, glaring at him from the doorway to his office. “You could at least look upset that you’ve pissed someone off enough to try to kill you. Again.”

“Shows I’m doing my job right,” replies Zhao Yunlan, around a mouthful of rice. Chu Shuzhi makes a disgusted noise, and disappears, presumably to go bother Lin Jing.

“This has happened before?” asks Shen Wei, looking gravely at Zhao Yunlan.

“Oh, well. You know. Sometimes things go a little south with one of the gangs, and people get a little huffy before I manage to remind them that I am much more inconvenient dead than alive. And I can be pretty damn inconvenient alive.”

Shen Wei looks like he doesn’t know whether to smile or frown.

“Relax, Shen-jiaoshou. It was a joke.” He smiles lightheartedly to prove it.

Shen Wei shakes his head slowly. “But it’s not. I brought you into this mess because I lacked the resolve to deal with it myself. And as a result, I put you in danger.”

Zhao Yunlan snorts. “Aiyo, Shen Wei. It’s part of the job, is all. I would much rather them be targeting me than you. And honestly, they may now be after you too. You should –”

“I’m not –”

“Lao Zhao,” calls Lin Jing, from the outer office.

Zhao Yunlan looks at Shen Wei. As one, they stand and step outside. Chu Shuzhi is standing behind Lin Jing’s shoulder, looking at the computer monitors. It’s dark outside and no one bothered to turn on the lights in the outer office when they came in, so Zhao Yunlan can see the monitor’s square image reflected in glowing white in Lin Jing’s glasses.

“You’re going to burn your eyeballs out,” he says, and slams on the overhead lights. Lin Jing flinches like a vampire in a horror movie recoiling from the sun; Zhao Yunlan rolls his eyes. “So. What did you find? Put it up on the screen.”

They have a wall-mounted flatscreen for group meetings and evidence review. Zhao Yunlan drags a chair out into the centre of the aisle for Shen Wei, and plops himself down on the corner of Zhu Hong’s desk.

Lin Jing brings up a file manager window, showing a list of files. Some are text documents, others spreadsheets. A few are files types Lin Jing’s computer doesn’t have a program for, and display as a little broken image.

“So,” says the nerd. “I’ve taken a quick look at some of these files, but I can’t really make heads or tails of them. Mostly it seems to be lab data, but what it means is beyond me.”

“Good thing we have Shen-jiaoshou to guide us,” says Zhao Yunlan. “Professor?”

Shen Wei is already looking at the file list. “Can we open the third file, please?”

It’s a spreadsheet packed full, mostly, of numbers. Dates, times, measurements. The cells in column one, titled Subject, are simply lists of letters. AA, AB, AC, AD, and so on. Shen Wei shakes his head. “Try the next one, please.” It’s more of the same, except that the first column names here start with B.

Shen Wei asks for a couple of the text files to be opened; they appear to be lab protocols. They refer to the test subjects only as ‘subject.’ There are a couple of enormous files, which Shen Wei determines to be genome codes. “If I had the right software, I could tell you if it was a human genome or not. But I can’t tell that here,” he says.

“Okay, let’s save that as plan B. Keep looking.”

Another couple of files holding sanitized notes. And then, finally, a PDF that’s locked.

“Oho,” says Zhao Yunlan. “Open it.”

Lin Jing looks at him around the side of his monitor. “It’s not actually as easy as –”

“You can do it, though, can’t you?”

“Well, yes, but –”

“Just open the goddamn file.”

They’re treated to a few minutes of typing and Lin Jing’s muttered reflections on respect or lack thereof. Then a program runs, the status bar turns green, and he double clicks the PDF again.

This time, it opens.

It’s a list. In the right-hand column are the familiar monikers from the excel sheets – AA, AB, AC. In the column beside that are names. Then ages. Then addresses.

A list of all the human participants, by pseudonym.

“Gotcha,” says Zhao Yunlan.

***

It’s almost eleven. No one from the university will be reachable at this hour. Shen Wei has Li Qian’s phone number, but she’s already proven that she reacts unpredictably to threats. They need to take this over her head to get it shut down. And, likely, they can’t do that until tomorrow.

“You can’t go home,” Zhao Yunlan tells Shen Wei. “It’s not safe.”

“If I’m not safe, you certainly aren’t,” replies the professor, leaning up against the wall of Zhao Yunlan’s office, arms crossed over his chest.

“Yes, but I have a gun, and also defensive training.”

Shen Wei gives him a look. “Does that help with stopping murderous cars?”

Zhao Yunlan sighs. He has a point.

A part of him, an awkward, embarrassed part, had hoped that he would be able to invite Shen Wei home with him. But the idea is already burning off as so much mist under a noonday sun. Still, there might be an alternative.

“As someone who’s spent the night in the PD, I can’t recommend it. But there’s a decent hotel down the street, and they’re used to hosting important summits. They have good security.”

Shen Wei straightens, dusting off his (pristine) trousers. “I’ll go,” he says. “But only on the condition that you come with me.”

Zhao Yunlan smiles. “Shen-jiaoshou drives a hard bargain,” he says. And, standing, he lifts his jacket down off the coat rack.

***

Zhao Yunlan’s ID gets him two rooms with a connecting door; he pays with his personal card and tells Shen Wei the Department will reimburse him. They won’t, of course, but the professor doesn’t need to know that. It’s not as though he spends his money on anything other than booze and cigs.

The trip upstairs to their rooms feels incredibly long. Now, at the end of an interminable day and the prospect of parting from Shen Wei, he suddenly wants another full twenty-four hours to spend with the man. He wants Shen Wei in his office, his bed, his life. He remembers the spectre of Shen Wei’s body pressed close to him on the bike as they fled certain death together, and feels the banked heat of an old fire.

They arrive at their rooms, side by side, and stop in the hallway. Suddenly awkward, Zhao Yunlan runs a hand through his hair. “Look. Unlock your side of the connecting door. If anything happens – if you even get worried – just bang on the wall and I’ll be there. Okay?”

Shen Wei nods, holding his key, still not moving to open the door. “Zhao-chuzhang…”

“Zhao Yunlan,” says Zhao Yunlan.

Shen Wei’s smile is small, tired. “Zhao Yunlan. I really do appreciate everything you’ve done. You’ve been truly honest and upright, while I’ve obfuscated at every step. I don’t deserve the help you’ve given me, but I’m very glad of it. If I can –”

“Don’t,” says Zhao Yunlan, quietly. “Don’t make me promises, or offers. Not for helping you. It’s my job – it’s my calling. And I don’t want this to be some under the table deal. Tit for tat. It’s not that.”

Shen Wei drops his gaze. “My apologies. You’re right – I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward.” He starts to turn, lifting his key.

“Because,” continues Zhao Yunlan, and Shen Wei looks up, the bridge of his nose wrinkling cutely. “If there’s going to be anything between us, I don’t want it to be a debtor-creditor relationship.”

Shen Wei is paused, hand half-up, lips slightly parted, eyes wide.

“Or am I off-base?” asks Zhao Yunlan.

Slowly, Shen Wei lowers his hand. He slips his key back into his pocket, and steps closer to Zhao Yunlan. His movements are deliberate, heavy, and his eyes are shadowed now.

“I could protect you better in my room,” continues the SID Director, grinning, his heart squeezing in his chest as if clutched in a fist. His skin feels hot, feels suddenly horribly aware of every centimetre of clothing spread across it, the way it rucks and chafes. He felt much, much better when it was Shen Wei pressed against him, thigh to shoulder.

Shen Wei reaches him and crowds in close. Too close for politeness, for a casual acquaintance. Zhao Yunlan reaches up and touches the card to the reader. The door clicks open behind him. Shen Wei pushes forward, pinning Zhao Yunlan against the door, and reaches past his hip to open it. They step back together into the darkness.

Shen Wei’s hand is at his hip, his other hand palming the back of Zhao Yunlan’s skull. He pulls him in for a kiss, slow and searching even as Zhao Yunlan stumbles into the wall and allows himself to be spread against it. The card drops from his hand and he wraps his arms around Shen Wei, revelling in the firmness of him. Shen Wei brackets him in like an oak blocking out the sun, but his mouth against Zhao Yunlan’s is exploring, seeking, looking for the angles and the answers from Zhao Yunlan that unlock his pleasure.

They move together, giving and taking, learning the contours of each other’s bodies, the shapes of teeth and tongue. Shen Wei is thorough in his work, as Zhao Yunlan is sure he is in all aspects of his life, leaving nothing untouched. It’s almost like being worshipped, his caresses, and a soft-edged satisfaction pours through Zhao Yunlan warm as golden sunlight, filling him to the brim. He moans against Shen Wei’s mouth and drags his hands downwards, catching at his hips and pulling him in so that Shen Wei can feel exactly what he’s doing to him. Shen Wei catches his breath and bows his head to nuzzle at Zhao Yunlan’s neck, lapping wet kisses into his sensitive skin.

The lights are still off but the curtains are open, letting in a filmy moonlight haze; by its silver glow they make their way over to the bed. Zhao Yunlan shoves off his jacket and kicks off his boots. He puts his holster and service weapon down on the bedside table with a heavy clunk. His tight jeans go next, only his history of slutty ways allowing him to shimmy out of them without embarrassing himself. He’s glad for that history, now, because he knows exactly how to drape himself on the bed to show off his body, the gleam of his lean muscle, the full length of his cock against his thigh.

Shen Wei looks down at him with dark eyes as he removes his own clothes, much more slowly. It feels like some kind of deliberate torture, watching Shen Wei slip off his vest, then his sleeve garters, then his cufflinks, before he finally, finally strips off his shirt to reveal the swell of his biceps and his pecs beneath a cotton vest. Then that, too, is gone, and his smooth skin is limned in a mercury gleam as he pushes down his trousers and briefs.

Zhao Yunlan reaches up for him and he comes to him, stretching atop him on the bed and kissing him again even as he brings his hips down to press their erections together. Zhao Yunlan moans and bucks up into it, arousal washing through him in a blunt-edged wave. He digs his fingers into Shen Wei’s back and bucks again, harder, when Shen Wei catches his ass in his hands and starts to knead. He digs his thumbs into the divot beneath Zhao Yunlan’s tailbone, the place that makes his spine go soft and supple with want, even as his palms spread his cheeks again and again, baring him.

Zhao Yunlan can’t stop the noises that Shen Wei is prying out of him, his ass hot and aching with want. Shen Wei’s holding himself just far enough above him that there’s a modicum of space between their bodies, that their cocks keep brushing and then parting, and it’s driving him mad even as he swipes his hands down the long, curved lines of Shen Wei’s shoulder blades.

Their kissing has grown wet, messy, long cloying passes before they have to break apart to breathe. He can feel the sweat rising on his body and on Shen Wei’s, where the professor is spread around him, knees to Zhao Yunlan’s. He wants more, but this isn’t an anonymous fuck, isn’t someone from the bar he’ll toss out of his bed at five am and never see again.

As if reading his mind, Shen Wei mouths over his ear. “I don’t have anything with me.”

Yes, hard to believe they neither of them considered picking up lube or condoms while fearing for their lives.

“This is good – it’s good – can you just, please, oh,” he lifts his hips again as Shen Wei’s finger passes over his hole. It’s throbbing, hot and hungry.

“If I – between your legs,” manages Shen Wei, his own hips jutting sharply against Zhao Yunlan. Zhao Yunlan who nods frantically.

“Yeah – yes – do it.” He reaches up and takes Shen Wei’s hand – large, fine-boned – and looks at him. Then, with Shen Wei’s eyes boring into him with the intensity of a plasma flame, he pulls his palm to his mouth and wets it. Messily, disgustingly. He can hear Shen Wei’s breathing, the shallow speeded pace of it.

A moment later, Shen Wei grabs him by the hip and turns him over roughly, without finesse. Zhao Yunlan gasps at the wave of arousal that peaks in him; he makes a note to request further rough treatment at an appropriate future date when he’s not waiting for Shen Wei to frot him. He closes his legs and wriggles a little, enjoying the friction against his leaking cock.

Then Shen Wei’s draped over him like a heated blanket, naked skin to naked skin. Zhao Yunlan shivers with anticipation, but also with memory – the sensation of Shen Wei behind him, enveloping him with his grip. He lets out a long, low breath, and feels Shen Wei’s wet cock slip between his thighs.

He lets Shen Wei guide him, help him raise his hips a little, pass a pillow beneath him. Shen Wei’s dick rubs up against the back of his balls, the thrust catching them fully so that Zhao Yunlan groans and fists his hands in the coverlet. The wet smacking sound of Shen Wei’s hips meeting his ass is obscene; it sends a pulse of honey-thick ecstasy up Zhao Yunlan’s spine.

Each cant of Shen Wei’s body is pushing him into the mattress, rubbing his cock against the pillow. He wants to touch himself – more than that, wants Shen Wei to touch him – but more than both these things, he wants to outlast Shen Wei. So he soaks up the pleasure, listening to Shen Wei’s rapid breaths, to the slide of his skin.

Except. Except that, after a particularly deep thrust, one that skates up and under Zhao Yunlan’s balls, he pulls back too far and thrusts in up between his ass cheeks. The thick head of his cock, wet with precome and Zhao Yunlan’s spit, catches on the furl of his hole. And Zhao Yunlan’s whole body tightens with a blast of arousal that makes him heady.

“Zhao Yunlan?”

“Yes – yes – fuck – do that – Shen Wei –”

Shen Wei shifts his angle and pushes in between his cheeks again, rocking up his ass. Each thrust catches at his hole, nudging, eager. He can hear a catch in Shen Wei’s voice, a thin dizzy kind of need. Zhao Yunlan feels drenched with sweat, sticky with it, his cock pulsing, pounding, so thick against his stomach. “Please – oh – just the tip – Shen Wei, fuck, I’m clean, just – ah –” All his slutty ways feel like training for this moment, the sounds he makes, the way he wriggles against the covers.

Shen Wei’s cockhead ruts up against him, pressing, pushing. Zhao Yunlan spreads his legs, hips undulating, raw want wringing desperate sounds from him.

The next moment Shen Wei’s cockhead breaches him. It’s tight, almost painful, but fuck he wants it. Shen Wei is holding him tight, hips rocking just gently, and Zhao Yunlan can hear the soft sound of skin to skin as Shen Wei strips his cock. The thick tip ruts in, teasing his hole, stretching him.

“Fuck – please – yes, yes –”

He feels the hot jet of Shen Wei’s come spurt inside him, all the way down his passage. Zhao Yunlan jerks, crying out, and Shen Wei shoves a hand under his belly and fists him. Zhao Yunlan finishes with an assful of come, wet and sloppy and toe-curlingly good.

When he’s done Shen Wei rolls them both onto their sides so they can enjoy the afterglow, bodies fit closely together.

Later, Shen Wei cleans him up with a cloth. Later, they get into bed properly.

Later, Zhao Yunlan sets an alarm.

Sleep, when it comes, is deep, and dark, and dreamless.

***

He wakes up to a gentle roaring sound, like the ocean rolling over sand.

Zhao Yunlan rolls over in the warm spot beneath the covers, looking for Shen Wei.

He’s not there.

Opening his eyes, he sees that this is because Shen Wei is washed – hair damp, perfectly combed – and dressed, and boiling hot water in a tiny portable kettle.

Zhao Yunlan sits up and feels the covers slide down his naked chest.

For just an instant, he’s not sure how things are going to go.

Then Shen Wei crosses over to him, leans down, and kisses him. He tastes of spearmint. “Good morning.”

Zhao Yunlan grins. “Good morning. It’s going to be a big day.”

Shen Wei nods, drawing back, fingers sliding over Zhao Yunlan’s jaw in a way that makes his skin tingle. “There are amenities in the bathroom.”

“Something you’d like to say?”

“Including soap,” smiles Shen Wei. Which, okay, fair. He does smell like sweat, and sex, and, just faintly, of Shen Wei – oakmoss and cloves. He wishes, just for a scant second, that he could keep the latter. But he can’t go into the office like this. So he gets up, glancing in passing at the floor where he’d shed his clothes last night.

They aren’t there. He stops, looking around.

“Your clothes are hanging up in the closet,” says Shen Wei. Zhao Yunlan looks at him for a minute, wordlessly, then goes to take a shower.

***

“I should come with you,” Shen Wei says, in the car. It’s one of the PD’s unmarked vehicles. Zhao Yunlan is driving, Shen Wei up front. Chu Shuzhi is in the back with Lin Jing and his laptop, just in case. But Zhao Yunlan has a brand new thumbdrive with unlocked files, and also paper print-outs. He’s not doing this without all the necessary cover.

“Thanks, but if this doesn’t work for some reason, it’s better that you’ve still got a chance at launching your own protest. You can’t go down in flames with me.”

“Your argument will be stronger with me there.”

Zhao Yunlan looks at him. “You were the one who didn’t want to get involved in the first place.”

Shen Wei stares back, evenly. “And that was a mistake. Zhao Yunlan, if you just –”

“Mind’s made up,” says Zhao Yunlan, cheerfully, and turns past the main gates.

***

He doesn’t go to the Department Head. He doesn’t even go to the Dean. He goes straight to the Chancellor, because he’s done fucking around on this. If the Minister is in any way involved, it’s going to take someone of serious standing to push back on him.

“I’m sorry,” says a pretty young secretary in the Chancellor’s outer office, all glass and polished wood, much nicer than Shen Wei’s department. “You need an appointment, Zhao-xiansheng.”

“Zhao-chuzhang,” replies Zhao Yunlan, producing his ID. “And if the Chancellor won’t see me, I guess I’ll just have to take my damning investigation to the Minister.”

The secretary blanches. “Just a moment, please.” She gets up and taps away on kitten heels, disappearing into an office. She’s not gone very long. When she comes back she’s smiling with her mouth, but not her eyes. “He can see you for a few minutes, Zhao-chuzhang.”

“Thanks.” He strides through the office after her, stepping into the large corner space, and shutting the door behind him.

“Chancellor,” says Zhao Yunlan. “I’d like to talk about one of your labs.”

***

“Will it work?”

Zhao Yunlan is back in his office, drinking tea with Shen Wei.

“Oh, I think so. Without proof all we could do is bluff, and he might have been able to get me shut down and shoved out of the Force. But with proof, his best bet is to make it all disappear.”

“That won’t redress the wrongs done,” says Shen Wei, frowning.

“No. It won’t. If I knew how to make that happen, I’d do it. But I don’t. You know as well as I do no one in power will ever admit to fault. And trying to make them only gets more dangerous the higher up the ladder you go.”

Shen Wei lets out his breath in a slow sigh. “I’m ashamed,” he says. “Of my colleagues. Of my institution. And, a little of myself.”

“Shen Wei –”

He looks up, placing his tea cup on the desk. “I delegated all my responsibility to you. And you accepted it, despite the unclear mandate. My mandate was not unclear, Zhao Yunlan. I had an ethical responsibility to stop it.”

“And you did.”

“You did,” replies Shen Wei.

“Shen Wei, I’m here to solve things like this. Maybe not exactly like this, okay, but – it’s my job to prevent the public from being harmed. By people too big and too scary for most departments to risk taking on. I’m glad you came to me.”

“I could have gotten you killed.” He looks sick with the notion, his mouth tight and disgusted, his eyes dark with regret.

Zhao Yunlan sets down his own cup, and leans forward. “You would not have gotten me killed. Unscrupulous people with no morals would have been responsible. And anyway, they weren’t, because nothing happened. Because I’m used to dealing with shit like this. And I don’t regret it. For two reasons.” He flashes two fingers; Shen Wei’s look of sucking guilt shifts just slightly towards curiosity.

“One: we stopped something that had no right to be happening. And two: I got to meet you. Until these past few days, if anything I thought that being single was a state of perfect convenience. For the first time – I’ve started to think that maybe I was wrong. That maybe there’s something to this relationship business.”

The corners of Shen Wei’s mouth twitch, just slightly.

“If this has all been a crazy whirlwind for you, and things got a little out of control, and what happened was just a… a fling, well. That’s fine. But if it wasn’t – if maybe there could be more… I’d like that.” He grabs his cup and swallows what’s left of the tea. Defiant.

Shen Wei does smile, now. “Zhao Yunlan. If I’ve done anything to lead you to believe I was insufficiently interested, please tell me so I can rectify it. Because I had no intention of committing a fling.”

He says it the way he might have otherwise said a felony.

Zhao Yunlan allows himself a breath, relaxing. “Then…”

“Perhaps,” says Shen Wei, “I could see you after work. I could make dinner?”

“You don’t always have to – ” begins Zhao Yunlan.

“No. But I enjoy it. Just as I enjoy you.” His smile is, just slightly, devilish.

Zhao Yunlan’s ass gives a little throb, a jolt of memory. He suspects, horribly, that he may be blushing. “Well then. Seven?”

Shen Wei stands, brushing down his (still impeccable) trousers. “Seven,” he agrees. “I’m looking forward to it.”

END