Liu Xiaokai looked at him. Behind Zhang Weiran, Xingyu was grimacing; he already knew what Xiaokai was going to say. “Would you like me to be honest?”

Zhang Weiran just smiled. “You can be as honest as you’d like.”

“You’re not very good at photography.”

Zhang Weiran laughed and Xingyu said, “Xiao-Xiao!”

“No, it’s okay. He’s right.” Zhang Weiran gestured to the pictures. “I know they’re not very good. The gallery got ahold of my name and told me they’d pay for my trip if I displayed my work—if I’m being honest, I just accepted because I wanted to visit at the same time as your ge.”

“That explains why you’re among the mediocrity,” Xiaokai said, “not why you, yourself, are mediocre.”

“Xiao-Xiao, seriously—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Zhang Weiran patted Xingyu on the shoulder, his expression warm, and when he looked back at Xiaokai that warmth disappeared. “You’re right again. There are more prestigious galleries that don’t display works that have already been in other galleries. Since this wasn’t that great of an opportunity in the first place, I’m saving my better work.”

Logical, Xiaokai could admit, but doubtful. Even if he had ‘better work,’ it couldn’t possibly be much better than this. Talented photographers should have enough photographs to separate “good quality” and “better quality”—if this was what Zhang Weiran considered “good quality” then he didn’t have much of a future in photography.

“Any specific feedback for me?”

Liu Xiaokai just told him exactly what he’d thought when he looked at the photographs, minus the fact that he was ninety percent certain that Weiran was in love with Xingyu.

“Harsh,” said Xingyu under his breath.

“He said he wanted honesty.” But Xiaokai couldn’t read Weiran’s expression—he still looked pleasant, but the smile had faded some; Xiaokai had the suspicion that he was holding back on telling Xiaokai exactly what he thought. He wanted to press a little more, maybe drop a few more insults thinly veiled as artistic feedback, maybe even vaguely refer to Weiran’s feelings just enough for him to get uneasy and for Xingyu to get confused.

But then his phone was ringing.

Liu Xiaokai lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Xiaokai. I have an appointment for you tonight.”

It was Sun Yue, but Xingyu was watching. He turned around, hiding his words with his body and with the noise of the crowd. “I was under the impression that I wasn’t supposed to have any appointments until…I had to reschedule with President Chen.”

“Chen Jun is more taxing, and I know Hu Yongzhu must have already done a number on you. I’ve already made it clear that you have injuries, and he’s fine if you don’t take your clothes off.”

“It’s not Xu Runshen, is it? He’ll lose his mind if he sees—”