Xiao-Xiao had rid the office of all the dark colors, replacing it with a white, clean look occasionally peppered with a medium-tone natural wood and vividly green plants. It was much more inviting and much warmer than anything Ba would possibly ever approve of for his own office, likely because Xiaokai had always been Laoma’s favorite rather than Ba’s. Another thing he’d added that Ba would have never even considered: two white sofas facing each other by the windows, separated by a blood-red Afghan rug that Xiao-Xiao had deftly stepped around as he’d moved to his desk. Very carefully, Xingyu moved across this rug and sank into one of the sofas. It was, unsurprisingly, very comfortable.

“Do you meet people here a lot?”

Xiaokai looked up from the folder he was flipping through. His gaze seemed a little sharper than usual. “What do you mean?”

“For, like, business meetings. I know Ba never liked to meet people.”

“Ah.” Xiaokai flipped to the next page. “Yes, fairly often.”

“Any people coming today?”

“No. Ah…I almost forgot.” He picked up his landline. “Refrain from the questions for a few minutes, please. Hello?” His expression changed, and so did the tone of his voice—everything got brighter, more cheery: “Mr. Chen, this is Liu Xiaokai. I’m terribly sorry, but we are going to have to move the meeting to a later date. Ah, well, you know how these things are…yes, that’s fine. Next Monday at six—I’ll add it to my calendar. I’ll see you then.”