The Next Morning
Tòumíng woke up to the sound of pacing. Rapid, anxious footsteps wearing a path in his floor. He blinked against the morning light streaming through his window and sat up to find Měi Nán fully dressed, makeup applied with unusual precision, wearing tight jeans and a fitted top that somehow looked both casual and carefully curated.
He was walking back and forth by the door, checking his phone every thirty seconds, running his hands through his hair and then immediately fixing it, his whole body radiating nervous energy.
"What's wrong?" Tòumíng's voice came out rough with sleep.
"The moving crew arrives in thirty minutes." Měi Nán didn't stop pacing. "Which means Ài Fēng will be here in thirty minutes. I haven't seen him in person in months. Video calls are one thing but face to face? He's going to look perfect and I'm going to look like a disaster and he's going to make some comment about my outfit or my hair or—"
"You look fine."
"I look fine? FINE?" Měi Nán's voice rose. "That's the most devastating thing you could possibly say right now!"
Tòumíng looked down at himself. He was still wearing yesterday's cleaning clothes, blood-stained, wrinkled, reeking of disinfectant and bodily fluids. "I mean, compared to me you look amazing."
"That's not a high bar! You look like you murdered someone!"
"Technically—"
"Don't finish that sentence!" Měi Nán resumed pacing. "Okay. Okay. I just need to be calm. Composed. Show him I'm doing great. That I'm successful and happy and absolutely not bothered by his presence."
Twenty-eight minutes later, a convoy of trucks pulled up outside.
Not normal moving trucks. Sleek, white vehicles with "Ài Fēng Premium Moving Services" written in elegant script on the sides, the logo incorporating a stylized phoenix. Each truck looked like it cost more than Tòumíng's entire apartment building.
The lead vehicle's door opened and Ài Fēng stepped out like he was making a runway entrance.
Designer sunglasses, probably cost more than a month's rent. A perfectly tailored crop top that showed off a toned midriff, the fabric clinging in all the right places. A long, tight silk skirt that hugged his hips and thighs, the fabric shimmering in the morning light. Fishnet stockings underneath, the pattern intricate and delicate. Hair styled to defy gravity, every strand in place, probably held with enough product to survive a hurricane.
He looked like he'd just stepped out of a high-fashion magazine, not someone arriving at a rundown apartment building in the slums to oversee a moving job.
Ài Fēng removed his sunglasses with a flourish, his eyes tracking up the crumbling facade of Prefecture Zing Residence, taking in the peeling paint, the broken windows on upper floors, the general air of decay.
His smile was sharp. Predatory.
"Wow, bestie!" He called up toward Tòumíng's ground-floor unit, his voice carrying that same artificial sweetness from the video call. "I love what you've done with the place! Very quaint poverty aesthetic! Really commits to the struggling artist vibe!"
Měi Nán's jaw clenched so hard Tòumíng could hear his teeth grinding.
Tòumíng stepped outside, still in his blood-stained clothes, and tried to salvage the situation. "Hi, I'm Tòumíng. Thanks for—"
Ài Fēng's attention snapped to him mid-sentence, his expression shifting instantly from mocking to intensely interested.
"Well, hello." He walked forward with measured steps, each movement deliberate and graceful. "Měi Nán didn't mention his new roommate was so..." His eyes tracked down Tòumíng's body, lingering on the visible abs through the thin, stained tank top, on the scars that stood out against his skin. "...rugged."
Before Tòumíng could respond, Ài Fēng was in his personal space, close enough that Tòumíng could smell his expensive perfume. His hand reached out, fingers trailing along Tòumíng's arm, ostensibly examining a scar but the touch lingering longer than necessary.
"These are fascinating." Ài Fēng leaned in closer, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "How did you get them? They look so fresh. So intense." His fingers traced the outline of a bullet wound scar. "This one especially. It looks almost like—"
"Moving crew should probably start packing," Měi Nán's voice cut through, sharp and tight. "That's what we're paying for, right?"
"Of course, bestie!" Ài Fēng didn't move away from Tòumíng. "The boys know what to do. I'm just getting acquainted with your friend here." He turned back to Tòumíng, his smile sultry. "So, Tòumíng. That's a unique name. What do you do? How did you meet our dear Měi Nán?"
"I work at a mine—"
"A miner!" Ài Fēng's hand was still on Tòumíng's arm, now squeezing slightly. "That explains the physique. All that manual labor. Very attractive."
"—and we met when he stole my bike."
Ài Fēng laughed, delighted. "He stole your bike? That's so him! Always taking things that don't belong to him." The comment was clearly directed at Měi Nán, who was watching from the doorway with an expression that could melt steel.
The moving crew started filing into the apartment, professional and efficient, but Ài Fēng made no move to supervise them. He stayed exactly where he was, invading Tòumíng's space with practiced ease.
"And these scars," he continued, his fingers now tracing a pattern on Tòumíng's chest, "they're all over you. You must have such interesting stories. I'd love to hear them. Maybe over dinner sometime?"
"They're from getting shot," Tòumíng answered honestly, completely oblivious to the subtext of the invitation. "Fourteen times. Last night, actually."
Ài Fēng's eyes widened with genuine surprise before his expression shifted to something even more interested. "Dangerous and mysterious. I like that."
"What's your problem?" Měi Nán's voice carried from across the room where he was pretending to organize things for the movers. "Can't you focus on the job you're being paid for?"
"I'm multitasking, sweetie!" Ài Fēng called back without looking away from Tòumíng. "Making sure my client is satisfied while also getting to know his very interesting roommate. It's called customer service!"
"We're not dating or anything," Měi Nán said, the words coming out too fast, too defensive. "So you can stop whatever this is."
"Oh, I know you're not dating." Ài Fēng's smile turned predatory. "That's why I'm being friendly. No harm in that, right?"
Měi Nán's eye twitched.
Tòumíng, still completely missing the dynamics at play, continued answering Ài Fēng's increasingly personal questions with earnest honesty.
"So you live alone? Just you and Měi Nán now?"
"Yeah, just moved in together."
"How convenient." Ài Fēng's hand had somehow migrated from Tòumíng's arm to his shoulder. "And you're single?"
"I mean, technically—"
"He's BUSY," Měi Nán interrupted loudly. "Very busy. With work. And... other things."
"I'm sure he can make time," Ài Fēng purred. "For the right person."
Měi Nán's hands clenched into fists.
The movers worked around them, packing boxes, wrapping furniture, completely ignoring the tension crackling through the room. They'd probably seen this exact dynamic play out dozens of times with their boss.
Ài Fēng shifted his weight, adjusting his stance, and then—very deliberately, very obviously—dropped his phone.
"Oops." His voice was saccharine. "Clumsy me."
He bent down to pick it up, but instead of bending at the knees like a normal person, he bent at the waist, his back to Tòumíng, the movement slow and exaggerated.
His ass—shelf-like and impossible to ignore in that tight silk skirt, was suddenly directly in Tòumíng's face, positioned with the kind of precision that made it very clear this was not an accident.
He stayed there longer than necessary, making a show of searching for the phone that was right by his feet.
Měi Nán's eye twitched so hard it looked painful.
That was it. The final straw.
He crossed the room in three quick steps, physically inserted himself between Tòumíng and Ài Fēng's presented posterior, grabbed Tòumíng by the wrist with enough force to leave marks, and dragged him toward the bedroom.
"Excuse us," Měi Nán said through clenched teeth. "We need to discuss something. Privately."
"Oh, take your time!" Ài Fēng called after them, finally straightening up with his phone in hand, his smile victorious. "I'll just supervise the movers. Make sure everything gets packed safely!"
Měi Nán pulled Tòumíng into the bedroom and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
In the living room, Ài Fēng smirked, adjusted his crop top, and turned to actually supervise his crew—mission accomplished.