This was a busy club. It was, as the bouncer had been thinking to himself as he glanced over Zhang Weiran’s mostly excellent forgery of Liu Xingyu’s identification, extremely exclusive; it was the kind of bar that only the fu’erdai and their friends frequented. Entry was free but the drinks were horrifically expensive—even if one were lucky enough to fool the bouncers and get through the front door, the prices alone would drive them right back out. For those lucky enough to survive both entry and the prices, the building itself was quite enjoyable, and was thus a popular hangout for the children of those who ruled the city. The club was two floors: the bottom floor was vaster than the next, a large dance floor with a bar on one side and the DJ on the other. Perpendicular to these were two staircases curving up from nearly the center of the dance floor to the edges of the club, leading to a high balcony that looked out over the bottom floor, another bar, and several private rooms. This second floor had another layer of security—the fu’erdai were elite, but of course there were elite among the elite. Liu Xiaokai and Liu Xingyu were among these. Rang’er, Chen Jun’s son, who had always considered going to these bars but could never muster up the courage to go after Liu Xiaokai rejected his invitations, would have also had the social standing to climb up to the second floor. In another lifetime, if Zhang Weiran’s parents had accepted the List with open arms and agreed to do their bidding, Zhang Weiran might have been able to go up there as well, even without the assistance of the Liu Xingyu ID card.

“Liu Xingyu,” having successfully fooled the bouncer, came into the club, moving through the dance floor with his chin lifted, not even bothering to glance toward that bar on the ground level—horrifically expensive or not, an elite like him would not lower himself so far as to drink with these lower folk. As he stepped through the crowd toward the staircase, he noticed that all the clothing around him was name brand, unnecessarily lavish recreations of what a person in a cheaper club might wear. It did not affect “Liu Xingyu,” of course, but past the disguise Zhang Weiran was disgusted. He wondered if this all would have bothered him if his parents hadn’t been killed and if he’d grown up just like them. He knew it wouldn’t have. That made him feel sick.

“Stop.” There was another bouncer at the stairs. He looked “Liu Xingyu” up and down. “What’s your business upstairs?”

“Liu Xingyu” answered impatiently: “I’m on the List. Is there a problem?”

“Name?”

An incredulous expression now—did he really not recognize him? “Liu Xingyu. Do you want to check my identification too?”

“It’s protocol,” said this bouncer. “You understand.”