Upstairs, however, the colors and noise level are more subdued, with dark panes of glass and wood pressing in on both sides of the narrow corridor. There’s a luxurious lounge at the far end, the kind of spot where the richest of the rich are probably busy exchanging trade secrets or making arrangements to buy Greenland over tiny glasses of baijiu, but leading up to it are six private rooms. This must be where the old man and his girlfriend disappeared off to.

I tiptoe from door to door, silently thanking whatever God of Crime is out there that the walls aren’t soundproof. Snippets of conversation float toward me, but it’s not until I reach the fifth room that I hear what I’m looking for: a soft female voice, with a distinct Southern accent.

“...the hospital, but the doctors say it might be months before they can actually go ahead with the operation...”

“What?” A gruff male voice booms out, followed by a muffled thud, like someone slamming a fist on the table. “That’s ridiculous!”

“I know.” She sniffs. “And the only way to push forward the date is to pay an extra fee, but it’s just—it’s so expensive...”

“How expensive?”

A short pause. Then: “35,000 RMB.”

“Baobei’r,” the man says, rolling an er sound into the end of the pet name the way all old Beijingers do. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? That’s hardly anything—”

“To you,” the woman interrupts. There’s the squeak of a heavy chair being moved, and I imagine her pushing away from him, a frown settling over her delicate features. “But for me—”

“Don’t be silly. How many times do I have to tell you, baobei’r? What’s mine is naturally yours...”

As the man continues spouting cheesy lines and words of comfort, I pull out my phone and hit Record. It’s a good start, but a low-quality voice memo alone won’t cut it. I still need photo evidence.

I’m trying to figure out how to get inside without opening the door myself when a waitress walks by, carrying an elaborate platter of fruit laid out on dry ice. All the lychees have been peeled and pinned into place with mini wooden toothpicks, and the fresh watermelons have been carved into the shape of blooming flowers.

With one elbow, the waitress pushes the door open, and I seize the opportunity to enter the room right after her.

It becomes clear to me at once why the private rooms are reserved for VIP members only. A glittering chandelier dangles from the high painted ceiling, casting flecks of light over the carpeted floor and full-length mirror on the wall like a much more expensive version of a disco ball. Beneath it, the old man and his girlfriend are seated around a table that looks big enough to fit twenty extra guests, the red tablecloth almost completely covered by an extravagant, mouthwatering spread of dishes. Most of them I’ve never even tasted before, only seen in ads or Chinese palace dramas: braised sea cucumber and abalone simmering in two little clay pots, white bird’s nest soup glistening in a hollowed-out papaya like just-fallen snow.