I quickly copy Chanel’s greeting, but the woman is already preoccupied, her gaze fixed on Chanel as if they might’ve met somewhere before. Then, in that same brisk, accented Mandarin, she says: “I’m not sure if anyone’s ever told you this, but you look a lot like that famous model—what’s her name again...”

“Coco Cao?” Chanel offers.

“Yes!” The woman claps her hands together and beams. “Yes, exactly!”

“Oh, right, well...” Chanel tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and with a practiced air of nonchalance, says, “That’s my mother.”

The woman’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Qiqi!” the woman suddenly calls her child, who’s busy tucking her doll into bed, her little face puckered in concentration. “Qiqi, guess what? This is a real model. Isn’t she pretty?”

“Model’s daughter,” Chanel corrects, but she looks a little pleased at all the attention, the evident awe awash over the woman’s face.

And I’m happy for her too. Of course I am. But as the train lurches into motion and the woman sits down beside Chanel as if they’re old friends and starts gushing about her mother’s latest appearance on Happy Camp, I get that feeling extras must have on large movie sets: like my presence might count for something, but it doesn’t really make that much of a difference.

Watching them out of the corner of my eye, I make a silent vow to myself that one day, strangers like that will notice me as well. I will not stay in the corners, feeling sad and silly and small, my pride eating away at itself.

No, I will do something great, and they will all know my name.

But until then, I decide to put my time to better use than listening to Chanel’s incredibly detailed skincare advice. Retreating to the very end of my bunk bed, I take out the printed, annotated map of the Autumn Dragon Hotel from my bag and force myself to study it.

I’ve already spent the previous two days memorizing every possible route to the twentieth floor—where Andrew She’s men will be waiting—and marking out the busiest spots, the corridors and corners where there’ll likely be the least number of security cameras. And still, I retrace the routes over and over again with my fingertips, try to visualize how the night will go in my head, prepare for the worst-case scenarios—where to stop, where to flee, where to hide.

The world around me starts to fade, as it always does when I enter this zone of intense concentration; in fact, if I forget about the whole illegal aspect of the mission, it’s almost like studying for an exam.

At some point, the air conditioner kicks on at full blast, and I shiver in the sudden, unforgiving cold, hugging the blankets tight around my body with numb fingers. But the cold only grows, the temperature dropping by what feels like ten degrees per second, and as my teeth start chattering violently, I remember, dimly, that it’s late autumn. There’s no reason for the train’s air conditioning system to be on at all...