He didn’t feel very strongly about very many things. When anyone abroad asked about his likes and dislikes, only two things came to mind: he liked Xiao-Xiao. He hated his father. If he put some work into it, he could be a little more or a little less specific, make some things up when he needed to—if faced with such a question, he would smile and say, “Hmm…well, I like my little brother, and I like studying abroad.” And your dislikes? they would inevitably ask, and he would laugh. “Soggy rice,” he would answer, and usually got a laugh out of his interrogator too. But the truth really was that he only liked Xiao-Xiao, and he only hated his father, and nothing else mattered. He stayed as long as he did because he loved Xiao-Xiao, he left because he hated his father, and he came back because he hated his father. Zhang Weiran was a pleasant surprise but had so far not altered this truth—Xingyu had no qualms about discarding Weiran if need be, just as he trusted that Weiran would not have any qualms about sacrificing himself if it was necessary.

He checked his watch. Still twenty-five minutes to go. The secretaries at their desks, though they had looked up and watched Xingyu for a bit when he first arrived, had lost interest and returned to their work.

There were three obstacles to getting into Ba’s office and poking around—it wouldn’t be as easy or as stress-free as getting into Xiao-Xiao’s office had been: there were the cameras, which were positioned at the office door and at the waiting room but not inside the office itself; there were the secretaries, two of them, who took breaks at different times; and there was the passcode on the door handle. This last one presented a particular problem that Zhang Weiran’s skills would not be able to take care of: it was battery-operated, and could not be hacked. Which meant that Xingyu would have to do it the old-fashioned way. The problem then was to figure out how to get the password without Ba, perhaps the most observant person in Xingyu’s life, noticing what he was doing. If only his training had included some kind of espionage lesson that wasn’t being dodgy with his answers and clever with manipulation.

“Xingyu?”

Xingyu instinctively shot to his feet—his ba was already here? He hadn’t prepared himself mentally, he was—

It wasn’t his ba.

Xiao-Xiao was in front of him in one of his neat suits, a black project folder tucked under his arm. He tilted his head. “After all that fuss about wanting to enjoy your time in the city, I’m surprised you’re just sitting around here in your free time.”

He relaxed. Dropped back into the seat with a sigh. “I like to be early just in case he wants to cause trouble.”