The tea house Ren brought us to smelled like roasted barley and old wood and the particular kind of comfortable despair that settles into a place when it has been absorbing other people's problems for a hundred years.
It was perfect.
The clerk was already there when we arrived — a small, soft-faced man in his forties named Im Chul-soo, currently on his third cup of something that was definitely not tea. He had the look of a man who had told himself he'd only have one.
Ren introduced us as old friends from the western provinces, which was an entirely fictional backstory delivered with such complete conviction that I made a mental note to never play cards with him.
"Chul-soo," Ren said, settling in beside him with the easy familiarity of someone who had done this many times before, "you look terrible."
"I feel terrible," Im Chul-soo said, with the dignity of the moderately intoxicated. "There have been significant developments at the ministry today."
"What kind of developments?"
