“And how do they do that?” I ask.

A small, self-satisfied smile spreads over his lips. “I thought about using cash at first—it’s untraceable that way, and it’d simplify the process—but then I came up with something better.” He clicks away from the app for a second and shows me an official-looking email from the bank, addressed to the owners of Beijing Ghost. “I asked a friend at the Bank of China to help set up a private account just for this—under a fake name, of course.”

My head snaps up. “Isn’t that...”

Isn’t that illegal? The question dangles at the tip of my tongue, but then, with a bubble of hysterical laughter, I remember that everything about this is at least a little bit illegal.

Alice Sun: Airington academic scholarship recipient. Honor roll student. Student council representative. And now criminal. Who would’ve thought?

“Isn’t that what?” Henry prompts.

“Nothing. Never mind.” I shake my head. Then I glance up at the app again, with its bright blue logo and sleek, professional interface, and can’t help asking, “How did you get so good at this?”

“I had to design an app on my own to convince my father to let me help out at SYS. He wanted the company culture to be as meritocratic as possible.” He combs back his messy waves with one hand, looking for a moment like the perfect picture of natural genius and nonchalance. “I was only thirteen at the time, so the app was obviously flawed, but it was proof enough that I could do...well, something.”

I hide my surprise. I’d always assumed his father handed out work opportunities and privileges whenever he could, maybe even forced Henry into a high-ranking role at a young age. I’d assumed Henry never had to prove himself to anyone.

I make a vague sound with the back of my throat, and busy myself scrolling through the app. As much as I hate to admit it, Henry’s right—it is easy to use. Not only that, but I can’t find a single discernible fault.

“Well?” Henry leans forward. His dark eyes are alight, his chin angled up a few degrees, the sure, sharp lines of his body tense with something like anticipation. I realize he’s waiting for me to give my opinion—no, for me to compliment him, like some kid proudly holding up his artwork for a class show-and-tell.

My lips twitch. “I didn’t know you had such a praise kink.”

Surprise—maybe even embarrassment—flickers over his face. Then that calm, expressionless mask I’m so used to seeing immediately slides back into place, and I almost regret having spoken. “I do not have a—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.” But when I turn and open my mouth to tease him further, I pause.

At this angle, under the fluorescent hallway lights, the fatigue shadowing his features is more noticeable than ever. He must’ve pulled at least two or three all-nighters these past few days just to finish working on the app.