Chapter 7: The Blindfold

Ren Yu’s features weren’t striking in any aggressive way. He was the kind of face that grew on you—clean, understated, each individual feature unremarkable on its own, but together they formed something genuinely handsome. And most importantly, there was a sincerity to him that seemed to come from the inside out.

Fang Yingli let out a soft laugh, clearly receptive to the flattery.

The mood lightened considerably. Ren Yu shifted topics, “You seem well versed in economic law, Attorney Fang. Those unfinished buildings at Yifeng, could they end up at a foreclosure auction?”

The question bored Fang Yingli. As he prepared to deliver the standard, perfunctory answer, he noticed Ren Yu spinning the black ballpoint pen from the table between his fingers, the folded square of newspaper tucked in another hand. That caught his attention again.

“Those blanks are 3, 9, 5, 8,” Fang Yingli said abruptly.

“What?” Ren Yu followed his gaze to the newspaper in his own hand, which were the half-finished sudoku with plenty of empty squares. Fang Yingli had only glanced at it once.

Ren Yu held up the folded paper. “You’re good at these, Mr. Fang?”

“Passable.” Fang Yingli answered, and, realizing he’d been distracted, returned to the previous question. “They can be auctioned, but there may be no market for them. Whoever takes over assumes considerable risk, with difficulty transferring property titles, fees that fall on the bidder, things like that.”

Ren Yu clicked his tongue. “So they really screwed people over. Can’t sell, can’t pay out, can’t even resume construction. Will Huanyan’s boss go to prison?”

“Bankruptcy due to mismanagement doesn’t carry criminal liability. Unless…”

“Unless what?” Ren Yu pressed.

Fang Yingli caught the flicker of urgency in Ren Yu’s eyes and curved his lips faintly. “Unless there’s evidence of illegal business practices, embezzlement, or fraud.”

The feeling of inching closer to the truth sent Ren Yu’s adrenaline spiking. In his breast pocket sat a recording pen, still running. He was weighing whether to dig deeper when the spinning pen stilled in his fingers.

“Come to think of it, Huanyan’s boss, Zhang Xiang—he was an alum of mine.” Ren Yu steered the conversation elsewhere, not wanting to seem too eager, too exposed. “Same university, A University, seven years ahead of me. I’d like to think he’s a good man who wouldn’t break the law and shame the alma mater.”

This was deliberate. He knew Fang Yingli had also graduated from A University, two years behind Ren Yu himself. He wanted to leverage the connection.

But Fang Yingli didn’t take the bait. He said nothing about his own school, just studied Ren Yu with a thoughtful gaze.

The stare unsettled him. Ren Yu touched his face. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

Fang Yingli looked away. “You didn’t before. Now you do.”

“?”

Fang Yingli tapped the right side of his own nose to demonstrate. “You smeared newspaper ink on your face.”

“…”

They’d barely exchanged a few sentences before reaching the building’s exit. Sunlight blazed off the glass facade, harsh enough to sting. Fang Yingli opened the door of his Audi.

Before they parted, Ren Yu braced an elbow on the half-open car door. “Mr. Fang, come by my bar this Sunday. Drinks on me.”

Fang Yingli’s gaze rested on the bridge of Ren Yu’s nose, where he’d rubbed too hard at the ink. It was red now.

“I’m not interested in eating or drinking.”

A flat refusal. He didn’t even bother to soften it.

“But it’s my birthday.” Ren Yu held up his ID. “See? The genuine article.”

The ID was real, and so was the name. But he’d changed it once, after graduation and before going abroad. It was nearly impossible to trace his past through the new name.

The sudden close-up of numbers made Fang Yingli’s pupils lose focus for a second. He gave the card a dismissive glance and said, without courtesy, “Are you that short on friends, Boss Ren? We hardly know each other.”

A hard line to answer, but Ren Yu had begun to learn the ropes with this man.

He stepped in closer, his eyes bright as daylight, and put on a look of playful secrecy. “But there’s one question only you, Mr. Fang, can answer.”

Fang Yingli raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“What color is my underwear?”

Fang Yingli froze for a beat, the memory surfacing unbidden—the flash of gray waistband at the fight club, the pale skin and faint red marks left by the elastic. His gaze turned ambiguous. But he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled out his cigarette pack. As he tapped one out, Ren Yu noticed the knife wound on his knuckle had darkened and begun to heal, now just a thin dark-red line.

Fang Yingli lit his cigarette. The lighter failed once, then caught on the second try.

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke and met Ren Yu’s eyes through it. “Gray.”

“Would you call that not knowing each other?” Ren Yu smiled, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret through the drifting smoke. “Not many people know the color of my underwear.”

Fang Yingli’s pupils wavered. At this distance, he could catch the faint coconut scent on Ren Yu’s skin. Then Ren Yu stepped back, as though it had all been a joke between friends.

“Come by.” He waved. “9 PM, Thousand Nights Bar.”

Thousand Nights Bar didn’t actually belong to him.

It belonged to his good friend, Chu Weiyi. Ren Yu had helped out early on by picking the name and helped set things up. But he’d never been the type to stay put, and the idea of diligently running a business was beyond him. By the time Chu Weiyi opened the doors, Ren Yu had already fled to America’s Chinatown to work under an old Chinese doctor.

Lucky for him, friends made things easy. Before adopting this cover identity, Ren Yu had squared things with Chu Weiyi—he’d get half a boss’s title for now, and return it once he got his final payment.

**

Chu Weiyi wiped down a glass and watched Ren Yu order the staff around, hanging “Happy Birthday” balloons in assorted colors. He couldn’t help laughing.

“I’ve known you eight hundred years, and I’ve never seen you make a production out of your birthday.” He shook his head. “Keep spinning your story. My guess is he won’t even show.”

“If he doesn’t come, then I’ll just celebrate. You said yourself, it’s a rare occasion.” Ren Yu settled onto a barstool. “I’ve invited a bunch of gorgeous friends. Just serve good booze. I refuse to believe the great Attorney Fang is some ascetic monk. If he takes a liking to any of them, the job gets a lot easier.”

The truth was, he didn’t actually celebrate his birthday on the date on his ID. Back when regulations were lax, his parents had moved his birth date forward two weeks so he could start school early. And he never celebrated birthdays anyway. The whole event was designed to probe Fang Yingli’s tastes.

At 8:50, Chen Xin arrived with his girlfriend, Min Xiaoyue, in tow. They’d all met before, and the room warmed up fast. Min Xiaoyue was something of a social butterfly. She blinked at Ren Yu and said, “Chen Xin told me about this Fang Yingli. Sounds like one of those pretentious legal elites. Says no on the surface, but who knows what’s going on underneath…”

Chen Xin nudged her foot with his.

“…underneath all that polish.” She smiled sheepishly and glared back at Chen Xin.

Ren Yu laughed. Imagine if Fang Yingli’s refined exterior concealed a truly filthy heart. That would be entertaining.

Nine o’clock. The cake was uncovered, the bottles opened, the lights set. No sign of him.

9:15 PM. Ren Yu declared they weren’t waiting any longer. He stood and opened a bottle of champagne, shaking it first on purpose. The foam exploded, drenching his shirt across the chest. The room erupted—drinking, dice, the dance floor’s volume cranked up, the DJ spinning fast. Ren Yu showed no sign of disappointment. He downed a glass and hit the dance floor, competing in some ridiculous dance-off.

Backlit by the harsh lights, the glare cut through his pale shirt, tracing the outline of his body, the faint lines of his abs. It was a beautiful silhouette, and he didn’t look tacky when he danced. If anything, he looked a little wild. When he raised his arms, the hem lifted, baring a soft, supple waist that swayed in a way that made you want to grab it.

When he’d danced himself out, he collapsed into the booth, panting, and downed another drink. “What are you all playing?”

Min Xiaoyue answered, “Something exciting. You in?”

Ren Yu grinned. What excitement in this world could he not handle? “Deal.”

They rolled dice. Ren Yu threw a 2, which turned out to be the lowest roll. Punishment was mandatory.

“What’s the penalty?” Ren Yu flushed easily from alcohol. His lips were bright, his cheeks like polished pink tourmaline.

The next moment, a blindfold was tied over his eyes, and a thin biscuit stick was placed between his lips.

“Hold half of it in your mouth,” Min Xiaoyue explained. “Then someone eats the other half. Afterward, you guess who.”

Ren Yu smiled around the biscuit and leaned back, head tipped against the booth, baring the long line of his throat.

The pounding music hammered his eardrums. Through the roar, he could vaguely hear the others murmuring among themselves, but then the voices went quiet. Nothing left but the beat.

“If no one comes, I’m going to finish this thing myself. It’s already melting in my—”

Before he could finish, a hand seized his jaw and wrenched his face to the side.

A soft crunch, and the biscuit snapped, the break landing right at the edge of his lips.

They touched.