探窗 — yan & ulysses

[calla]

► ► ►

"You changed my lyrics." Cao storms in and accuses, spitting the words out like he's been choking on them for the past two hours of performance.

You roll your eyes and press a thumb under your lip, wiping away the rouge that's gotten stuck underneath.

"They're not your lyrics."

So what if you switched out Liu Bang’s army for the Peacekeepers? They still win in the end, don’t they? That's propaganda at it's faster.

At least you'd been subtle about it. It had been a little clever twist of the words, trading Han for White without even a falter. You're surprised someone as unsophisticated as Cao even understood the swap.

Yitang was the one that really gave it away, standing there stupid as Xiang Yu slowly bled from him. He missed his first cue and stared at you in a growing sort of panic, even as the descending gong sounded twice. You'd fallen against his side in a show of despair and pinched his wrist to get him to snap out of it.

His voice cracked on his next line.

But that's besides the point. You know your audience. "They wouldn't have noticed, anyway."

The spluttering starts right on cue.

And isn't that the punchline of it all - Cao knows his marks better than anyone else here.

You might make an actor of him yet.

”You're going to get someone killed.”

He doesn't understand that it's still a game. You laugh to your reflection and then turn to him languidly, you're in a good mood for once, you’ve been floating ever since putting those pins in Xiao Qiu’s shoes. It had been a strikingly wonderful show without him. Some other kid had been pulled up to take his place and all night you rode the high of seeing him dejectedly limp around backstage.

You're still thrumming with it.

This is what happens when you can feel the paint on your face; that before, during and after. It's that very specific way in which the character settles under your skin and sticks there.

You're filled with a heavy handed sort of delusion, the kind that makes your head feel like brushed cotton. All the colours get a bit brighter, the sounds get a bit louder. It's a precarious mindset.

It's more like a balancing act than anything else.

You pick up a cloth from one of the vanities, drawing it from hand to hand and bowing, half-singing, mocking -

"My Lord is so stubborn that he rarely takes any advice at all." *

"Yan-"

"I fear the land will be annexed and his legendary reputation will be tarnished." *

"You need to stop-"

“Since I began to follow my Lord, I have suffered great hardships.” *

The other performers start to titter, sending each other knowing looks as they scrub their faces and peel away their armour.

This is the show after the show, when the tempers flare a little hotter and provoking Cao becomes a ranked sport.

There's no question of where you sit on that ranking.

"You don't even understand what you're doing." His voice strains and you hold the cloth to your eyes in grief, “If we’re shut down, where do you think you'll end up?”

Cao doesn’t seem to know how unfathomable his question is.

It’s an easy answer though, passed down to you from Consort Yu herself, it's been turned over and over in your hands like a stone being smoothed.

When the thing you love is gone -

“I have no courage to live on.” *

He slaps you across the face.

It’s barely anything, it's a sorry excuse for a hit and there’s no real force behind it, but you both freeze anyway. Your head snaps to the side and the whole room stops.

Cao wears his grandfather’s ring on his right hand. It’s the only part of the impact that stings, the warmth blooming in the shape of a signet.

There’s a long moment of silence that tapers out between his breaths. The room’s gone dead quiet. Everyone’s turned back towards their mirrors, purposefully pointing their bodies away from the scene but still watching it out of the corner of their eyes.

Lilian starts to edge towards you.

It’s uncharacteristically bold for Cao to do this in front of the company. He looks surprised, like he's caught even himself off guard. That’s how you know you’ve nudged him right up against that precipice. Back to the wall, shock on his face; how does it feel to finally know just how close that tipping point has been?

The power dynamic has started to strain under the weight of both of you, like a mountain ledge beginning to crumble and give way, the rumbling of it starts somewhere down low and works its way into your bones.

Cao is strangely still in the face of it. You're the one who's trembling.

You look at him, a little impressed, and he looks back at you, very much afraid.

Yu hovers on your peripheral.

“Well?” You ask softly. Dangerously. “Did you leave a mark?”

Cao drags his gaze to your cheek and pales.

He’s every bit as stupid as you thought.

You grab the closest heavy thing and automatically swing it towards him, but Lilian is there already, and then Yitang, and then before you can make connection you're being pulled away and the powder box meant for Cao's skull is falling from your hands to clatter loudly on the floor, spilling everywhere.

Your fist connects with Yitang's shoulder instead but the oaf doesn't even notice. He's muttering something and lifting you off the ground, Cao is already retreating, eyes flitting, and the look on his face makes you kick out, lashing into empty air.

"Own it." You hiss at him, writhing from Yitang, "Own it you son of a bitch."

At least when Yaoqing used to beat his students, he didn't pussy-foot around it. He never apologised for the strike of the switch, he just expected you to do better next time. If he had been made leader before his lungs gave out then there would be no worry of Keepers storming the theatre. He would've been smart enough not to hold a gun check at the door, he would’ve been clever with the repertoire, he would have made some kind of deal.

The industry change would have been treated as what it really was - just an influx of seats to be filled. You would have gathered at least half a dozen patrons already. Things would have been fine.

Cao's settled on a point past your shoulder now, past Yitang's shoulder, really, with the way he's holding you like a goddamn sack of flour. He's taken the beard off already so there's nothing you can pull at. You see Lillian swivel around to look behind you both and her face twitches.

"Yan..."

"What?" You see her clock the irritation, but she still discretely tries to point behind you. You attempt to turn, but Yitang must still think that as soon as he opens his arms you'll take off like an angry cat and start scratching, "Put me down, idiot."

"You're just gonna hurt yourself."

"Put me down," You snap mockingly, "My Lord."

* lyrics from 霸王别姬

[fox]

► ► ►

Five days before the announcement, a clerk from the mayor's office gives notice to the Forum from a conversation she'd overheard.

In two days, the Capitol sends auditors to each of the factories in the process of closure. Nova Industrial is seized due to inconsistencies in reporting. Before the owner is jailed, he dies from a gunshot wound to the head. Single bullet, unmarked pistol.

He's found cold in his sprawling Romanesque home, the exotic plants on the sill of the sunroom freshly watered and gleaming with dew. They find dinner in the oven, now withered and dried to nothingness. He's holding the gun that killed him. An investigation begins.

A week becomes two. And then three.

In the tiny office on the work floor, the foreman of the acrylic factory stares openly at your shaking hands.

You feel a new thinness in your being, a lacking that protrudes like bones beneath his gaze. The perpetual sleeplessness hollows you out. It does not dull you. It makes you more brutal. There's an absence of pretense now, no more feigning chivalry. No more patience. You don't have the energy. You hate him. You hate him and it feels distinctly sharper than before.

On his way home, the foreman, a middle-aged worker who had spent thirty of his years in that factory, is beaten to death. His body is thrown into a ditch unceremoniously and his pockets are emptied. The Capitol calls it juvenile senselessness. This is the exact kind of violence we had hoped to stamp out with the new tide of Peacekeepers, they said. The man on television calls the industry change a much needed adjustment for the nation.

Second week, the assets are in the process of being moved from each factory marked to be shuttered in the coming months. It's a tedious thing, the fragile ecosystem made of deals and debts. It crumbles under survival instinct. Those factory owners lose their silk ties, and honour is the first thing to die.

The Forum counters with ferocity. People are killed or paid. They lose millions, but The Forum survives. The assets that would take years to move are liquidated and the cash is buried in storage vaults, as they had been in the early days of their business schemes. Temporary measure until they find new holders.

The investigation ends during the third week. Suicide, they conclude.

The new doctor who visits you in the estate says nothing, simply writes you a new prescription, and not as stupid as the last, understands to never keep a record when she sees the scar of the sigil. You take your medicine. The tremor fades from you.

At the end of the month, you return to the opera.

𓅞

Xiao Qiu does not appear with the hua dan actors who move lithely onto the scene. Someone new stands in his spot, off to the left of the stage to prelude the arrival of Consort Yu.

You lean forward. There's a sudden urge to laugh.

You watched Yan glow like an ember, burning in silence before you left, distinct change in temperament as soon as you'd mentioned a replacement.

Perhaps, it did really wound his pride.

Now Xiao is gone. The extent of his pettiness is nearly admirable. Your eyes shift from the new actor to Yan.

The costume is new. No more tiger or birds or the golden hue of the sleeves. The pale cerulean looks impeccable in the light. Yan is as beautiful as ever, moving like water on the stage, the hair piece hanging down his back in a sheet of black silk. You notice the embroidered peacock on the belt even from afar, brilliant, extravagant, silky oil-coloured feathers. A faint smile starts on you. It suits him, arrogant thing.

Xiang Yu walks on to the sound of the high-pitched drum and cymbals, punctuating his steps. You lean back into your seat. The music contours his singing voice.

"My lord," the consort says.

He has not changed.

But the world around him has shifted. Below, the crowd is imbued with the presence of Peacekeepers. The old ones are stoic with their sharp, military posture, the newer recruits a little rowdier and more nervous. The uniforms are stark against the rich upholstery of the chairs, the colourful garments of the civilians. You pick out the sargeants of the garrison in the audience.

Unease scrapes away at you. It sharpens like a whetstone. The smallest things make you tense these days, a terseness in your speech just short of annoyance. Sometimes, it feels like there's a shard pressed against your chest – inhale too deeply and a pain starts. You can never get rid of it.

You think of war when you see them. Your grandfather used to describe the occupation of Nine over dinner, tales passed from his own father during the depths of the dark days. You remember sitting with him, an austere, level-headed man with streaks of white in his hair, in the study with the lacquered oak chairs, the bay window, and the smell of ink. Your cousin was always fond of his stories. Jessamy had been a better audience than you were, patient and attentive.

It's strange. You think of her as a twelve year old, hair tucked into one long plait, mischievous but never caught red-handed, a little haughty because she knew she was smart. You haven't seen her since you've returned.

You meet your aunt and uncle in scattered intervals at opaque hours. The rest of the family knows nothing. They mind you out of familial duty to your father. But they think this – the collateral must be kept at minimum.

Yitang suddenly quiets. Your eyes flicker back up to the stage. He stares at Yan with his mouth slightly open. The change in his expression is faint but noticeable.

Yan gratuitously falls into him. It's not supposed to be there. Yitang's off rhythm, misses the beat, and starts with an edge in his voice.

You narrow your eyes at the mistake. Yan did something – Yitang was staring at him with that look of awe. But there was no discernible reaction from the audience. So something small. You'd think it'd be a slip of the tongue, but this is Yan. It would not be a mistake. Something on purpose.

The performance ends and you barely notice, still running a finger along the change you couldn't place. The audience files out, parted by the uniformed crowd. You watch them leave before you come down from the balcony. Backstage, the actors weave through the corridor, between the deconstructed sets. You open the door to the green room, greeted by the rows of lit mirrors.

Your eyes go to Yan.

How funny it is – set like a scene.

He's held up like a cat by its scruff, and you have to respect Yitang for his enduring patience, either saint-like or stupid to be able to have tolerated Yan all this time. He attempts to writhe out from the other's grasp, hissing, kicking at the air, and utterly fails.

There's a powder box on the floor. The room feels like a stretched elastic but you don't mind it.

You've seen Yan angry. You haven't quite seen him like this.

Lillian covers her mouth. In the corner of her peripheral, she catches you, locks eyes with you standing at the entrance with the door ajar, and pales.

You smile idly at her.

It's amusing, how she tries to get him to notice. You watch, lean against the frame. He's decidedly less dignified carried like a petulant child. His furious anger dims a bit from his position, restrained by Yitang.

"Put me down, my lord." He uses an imitation of his consort voice, mocking with wry devotion.

"Put him down," you say.

It's like the room flinches then stills. Measuredly, you walk from the doorframe.

Yan is still in his makeup, and you examine his expression under it. The hair pieces are removed, but the costume is still draped over his frame and shines like a clear pond underneath the lights. Your gaze catches on his cheek, where there's a mark beneath the smudged grease paint, a single imperfection. So you understand.

There's a strange feeling that rises in you.

The moment is pulled dangerously taut.

"Who did it?" The words are soft. The question hangs in silence.

You already know. The way he'd spat at Cao and how the troupe leader had pressed himself against the wall, eyes widening at the virulent hatred – to be honest, you didn't think the man had it in him, withering each time Yan so much as glanced in his direction.

Cao makes a noise behind you, something like a sharp inhale, a sputtering but no words come. You ignore him, examining the little wound left behind on delicate skin.

There is a kind of irritation that flashes in you, hot and quick. It's a certain anger that's like a pinprick.

The actors do not look openly. They're turned to their mirrors, gaze fixed straight ahead, but they take too long to do their tasks, they're too deliberate with every move. The weight of their observation does not go unnoticed. It settles over your shoulders like fine silk. You shift your countenance.

Your voice becomes gentler still. You posture yourself in a way any gentleman would, with a sweet concern. "Oh. I'm sorry to interrupt. I came to see Mr. Li."

Orchids do not grow in Nine.

You are sure Yan is aware of this.

There are wild orchids in the forests of Seven and in the balmy regions of the south. But who is Yan if not someone who expects something utterly ridiculous? You sent for a single bouquet from a nursery in the Capitol. It took three contacts and a hovercraft that delivered it the same day with the usual shipments of provisions.

They were presented to you in lilac wrapping, the moth orchids blemish-free, pearly-white, cascading artfully out of the glass vase. An errand boy delivered them to the Opera House yesterday, tied with your name seal.

"I sent you flowers," you tilt your head, feigning care. "You received them?"

[calla]

► ► ►

If this were on stage, the great cymbal would have played at Ulysses' entrance. You swear you hear the echo of it coming from the rafters, the sound so ingrained into your psyche that you can bring it out at will.

If at all possible, the air gets tenser. The actress who was still fiddling with her brushes freezes, Lilian looks like she might throw up, you can even feel Yitang tense against you.

Cao's reaction is your favourite, though. The moment he understands what's happened his shoulders draw in, his disposition falters, you can see the sweat bead on his forehead. The terrible chasmic thing in your chest laps at it greedily. It stretches its talons out and croons at the real fear in his expression. Face changer; the anger flooding your throat changes to a type of joy so quickly that it makes your head rush.

The Lord loses confidence, the Lady loses will.

Yitang puts you down gently. His hand lingers at your waist, trying to stop you from doing something stupid, no doubt, but you step away dignified.

Then Ulysses is there, watching you, he comes to exactly the conclusion you want him to. There's power soaked into him, there's something there glinting in the light, something catching on a sleeve - how did you not notice it before? Too blinded by an instinctual rage. Too busied by the haze of normality; silly little bird, silly little fool.

You bask in attention the way a reptile basks in the sun. It warms you the same way that the afternoon warms concrete.

Here is an opportunity falling into your lap, fluttering so gracefully to greet you. Here is something to break up the monotony. How many times have you been promised greatness? How many times has each one failed?

This isn't a simple visit at the end of the show. This isn't pampering behind the stage or waiting in the back leaving a gift at the door. You look at Ulysses, commanding more of a presence than any man in your vicinity ought to, and you see something different.

Not quite greatness. Not with the way he makes the room tremble. There's something else there. There's a metal seal that your nails catch on and you can tell just from the heat of it that there's something molten in there. Something to sink your teeth into.

"Who did it?" Ulysses asks softly, and your smile is anything but.

You are triumphant. Vindictive. You know Cao can see it in your eyes. Ulysses' tone is enough, you don't even have to point him out. He's doomed himself and you've barely lifted a finger - he is going to die and you are going to win. The Emperor is going to fall on the sword that he forged and blame it for cutting so well.

Liu Bang never did get that killing blow.

How stupid of you to dismiss him before. Maybe it was silly of you, but between the last meeting and this one, you didn’t really care who Ulysses was. He was a half-hearted memory of frustration that kept you warm for a few hours. All that righteous anger ebbed away the longer the night lasted.

And it was a very long night.

He became just another scrawl on a changing list of names. The only asterisk attributed to him was the fact that he caught you off guard, sans makeup, sans costume, sans armour. It was unfair last time. You don't make a habit of meeting them like that. With your disposition now, it's not exactly any fairer, it's just that the scales are tipped in a different direction.

"Flowers. You echo, still pawing at the canary and only halfway through the shift back to normalcy, stuck between faces like a thread stuck in a zipper. It pulls and snaps, the closure fastens, you lean into the empty space with exaggerated gratitude.

"Of course," You say, "Of course."

That expensive little test he hasn't passed or failed yet. You suppose it doesn't really matter in the end - the usual patronage only extends to the inner edge of the wallet. You still get what you want, even if it isn't what you want.

In this breath of a moment, though, you know that he is not the usual patronage.

The first time was an anomaly. This second time is a pattern.

You lay your hand over Ulysses’ arm but you look at Cao. He trembles, reverting to that awful shaking thing that he is, there's blind panic in every line of his body and this time it's not from you. His eyes flit between Ulysses and the spot where you’re holding him.

In even your worst moments, he's never quite looked at you like that.

You smile at him, sickly sweet, and trade neurotic Yan for devoted Yu. She settles between your teeth and hides in the gaps of your ribcage, smoking the rest of your good sense out like she's airing an old room. There's silk against your shoulders, steel sewn into your spine like silver, you are many things simultaneously.

"Cao-Laoban." You say, simpering, and that makes him finally lock onto you.

"A true hero has tolerance, and ignores the words of others." *

His face flickers, jaw tensing, like he's mentally calculating how much he'll lose if his star is disfigured any further.

Your face doesn't hurt. There's a dull ache that's taken over the sting, but you play into it anyways, holding your knuckles to the spot. You reach for the fainting couch, drop the sword and hide the slit in your throat from the crowd. The applause rings in your ears.

"We have to cancel tomorrow." You lean on Ulysses a little more, one hand on his sleeve and the other on your face. The army approaches, and Yu Ji tries to convince her husband to stay, "I think I feel faint."

See how he handles the crowds after that; once they've heard he's beaten his principal actor to near death, so badly that he can't perform, so badly that he can't leave his room? Your little adlib will seem like a nursery rhyme.

"Mr. Xie will escort me to my room." You say it like it's a great burden, giving him a little push and passing it off a stumble due to your state.

Lilian moves to follow but you give her a look, and she stops.

If Ulysses expects you to drop the act once you're out in the hall, you don't envy the disappointment he must feel. You hum to yourself as you guide him further into the labyrinth of rooms and offices and storage.

That was the good thing about purchasing an old warehouse for the company - the floorspace all started out empty. Most of the walls were put up as they were needed, different little sectionings of corrugated metal were arranged each spring as the cast rotated and the sets moved. Cao's office is still the biggest, but it's in the middle of the building, so it doesn't have any windows.

You'd always thought that was fitting. An ugly little man in his ugly little cave.

You touch the proverb on your door out of superstition and out of habit; blue and green and the peach of your eyes, the light hits the wood and turns it copper.

It's an ugly colour, that cerulean. When the new costume came in blue, you'd thought it was someone's idea of a terrible joke and half expected the maids to all come out behind you dressed in green. You threw a fit until someone told you that the blue shade actually suited your complexion quite well.

You open the door and gracefully kick a cushion out of the way. It's always been an eloquent sort of mess in here - a defiance and a parallel all at once.

There’s two crates pushed together and covered with so many cushions and throws that it might as well be a palace chaise. Hanging above it there's a mask made of yew wood from an island in Four and where the two walls meet, the Panem flag is tucked up in the corner. There's a standing screen painted with swallows dipping in and out of orange clouds that separates the rest of the room from the cot that destroys your back, the one that you're still so disgustingly proud of anyways because everyone else sleeps on rugs in one of the old storage rooms.

The empty rack beside the mirror waits for Yu's robe. You have a single-paned window that's permanently cracked open because Aloys will usually come in and listen to you gossip as long as he has a place to smoke.

Ulysses' vase of orchids sits on the vanity. Next to it is a bottle of white lilies and baby's breath. Next to that is a single red rose wrapped in brown paper. All of the little pots of grease paint have been cleared away and someone’s left a tin of candied fruits in front of it all, tied with twine and peppermint.

It's tributary. Ulysses’ is one votive among many.

"Those ones are yours?" You say, pointing to the flowers vaguely, dismissive in a flighty, endearing way, "They're nice."

Except you pluck a spring of baby's breath and examine that instead, twirling it endlessly between your fingertips.

Everlasting love. Resilient. Cheap. Toxic.

You can tell who it's from without even looking at the card.

Still, the game, the role, the manner; you sweep back to Ulysses and hold his lapel with one hand, slipping the sprig into his breast pocket with the other. Stepping back out of the light, you appraise him easily. He looks striking, wearing a gift from another one of your admirers.

The occasion calls for wine, but Cao stopped supplying that particular indulgence after it cost him a set of shattered glasses, seven stitches, and a new Consort Yu costume.

Ulysses' presence is like something electrifying. You wrap yourself in a swath of smugness, imagine the scrambling that Cao must be doing now - "Did you enjoy the show?"

* lyrics from 霸王别姬

[fox]

► ► ►

He glances up, eyelids petal pink.

He could almost convince you of being the virtuous Consort Yu – the hand grazing your arm would've been an unbearably tender gesture if you had not met him weeks ago and watched him burn like a demon.

He simpers, he stumbles, he implicates Cao.

You feel his presence in the corner, compressed against the accusation, like something tightly, painfully wound.

Still, you look only at Yan.

Cao wouldn't hit his star performer.

Daming was someone rather harmless, motivated by his little ambitions and great instinct for self-preservation, slyer than a simple coward but too stupid to do anything truly horrible. He had the fortune of being born into wealth, and he had enough sense to maintain this comfort. You’ve known him for years. You watched him grow stiffly into the first son of the metal baron, but never the favourite.

When you came to claim your inheritance from your father, he slipped easily into the habit of calling you Mr. Xie, and you in turn, referred to him as Daming. The denomination was implicit. You have not addressed him as your elder since you were a child.

You hold the stillness of the room in your fist, and Yan larks in it.

He sings a verse, voice clear as water, turned murky with its ridicule. He could pick out a particular nerve from a person like a weaver with those fine fingers, pulling threads taut across bones like a loom.

Troupe leader and his dan.

But Yan is not just that.

Cao wouldn't hit your star performer.

And yet the mark on his cheek settles to a dull pink.

When had Daming gotten so daring? You want to ask, a laugh caught beneath your tongue, tasting bitter. When had he decided he was more than a useful idiot?

What patience you gained in the last week rests barely on the skeleton that remains. A harshness you can't quite hide sets in your jaw, jagged outline carved by exhaustion. You want to know what has happened, and your appetite for an audience is thinning.

But Yan flutters about. Cao had not hit him hard, evidently. And if it had been anyone else that struck him, you would have assumed nothing of it. It would've been more incredible that no one had ever tired of Yan's aggravating vanity.

Softly, he pushes against you.

"Mr. Xie will escort me to my room."

You pick up on the beat, watching how he makes an exit.

"Yes." Lighter than a feather, you take his hand and place it higher on your arm. "Of course."

Against the wall, the troupe leader's face is drained to a grayish pallour when you glimpse it. The colour reminds you of the soft, milky belly of a dead fish. Yitang steps aside, and there's a ripple through the room.

You say nothing. Cao opens his mouth, and then closes it.

In the hall, Yan shows no change in expression. He presses his hand against the wound, eyes downcast. He takes the lead through the backstage, arm looped with yours, weaving comfortably through rooms and sets, musicians and technicians. The warehouse feels like its own city, eternally moving. On the door, the proverb shines, and he touches it lightly before turning the handle.

The room hasn't changed except for normal disarray, signs of life, a shifting that marks time. Your eyes catch on the vanity. The scent is cloying, the dying flowers, heavy in their withering.

Fans, you suppose. He is not beautiful to you alone.

From the window, a breeze curls in, damp in the air. District Nine, cradle of parts and production of Panem, had not yet shed the dust of its old industry. The first few days of spring rain turned the ash of the streets to mud. The factories had shuttered, but the chemical tone of black smoke returned with each downpour, still ingrained in the crevices of the district.

"Yes," you say absently. Your eyes follow the contours of the room. "I'm glad you like them."

When you turn to him, his hand is on your lapel, threading baby breath into your pocket with graceful fingers. He stands so close to you, even with no audience, and the sudden proximity makes your chest tighten, back stiffening slightly as you watch him intently.

His eyes are lined and tipped. The makeup feels strangely softening despite its exaggeration. When he was bare-faced, his beauty felt striking, the fineness of his features so stark. The greasepaint simplifies. You search for him, but the mask stays on.

You might prefer his abrasiveness to this.

Contentment is harder to read. His change in demeanour might mean he's pleased about the outcome of your entrance. Because you are displeased with the stupid man who cannot even control his own actors, who threatened your informant. And Cao, who displays every emotion on his face, unable to lie well – for his own body betrays him time after time – is afraid of you.

There is no answer to your conjecture. Instead, he sweeps away a second later, and from a distance, he considers you. His eyes are quicksilver when he speaks again, glinting.

"Did you enjoy the show?" He asks.

The show. You fold your hands together, leaning against the chair of the vanity and looking through the little garden of offerings. The orchids are quick to lose their lustre, already wilting from being cut from their soil. Temperamental flowers for a temperamental person.

How do you answer, like a man or like a knife?

"Hm." There's a hint of a smile. Carefully, you shed the mockery out of your voice, supplant it with something that could almost be fond. "Which one?"

Xiao hua lian, you watched him paint new faces right before you. Yan of a month ago is different from Yan on stage and different still from the person standing here now. "Dan and Chou – might be your true calling."

You're thinking, considering, gazing at the white lilies. The petals peel back, a little translucent in the light. There's a question that lingers, stumbled over by Yitang, and left on the stage. It feels like a sly thing, curled in a blind spot, and it makes you tenser. A second of silence stretches between you two.

Finally – "You changed the lyrics." Your voice is bland.

Not a question – just an observation.

"Cao is angry at you because of it." Another statement. Even a worm turns, so it seems.

But you don't know what it is.

Despite the lightness of your tone, the answer sits at the bottom of your chest, pebble under a clear lake, unreachable still. What, you want to know, but you don't ask it yet, observing Yan. You don't expect him to give you anything easily. You ask a different question instead, so nearly affectionate in inflection had you been someone else.

"I'd like to know why. Enlighten me, little bird."

[calla]

► ► ►

He stares at you strangely. You widen your eyes in the picture of innocence, obedient little Yu, devout little Lady, hanging on every word of her Lord and then strangling herself with the slack.

"Which one?" He asks, with a new undercurrent this time.

Your posture turns coy.

So, he can play after all.

You raise a sleeve to your mouth as through you're scandalized, but your eyes flash with the understanding that passes between the two of you. Ulysses is suddenly in on the joke that Cao never seemed to understand. You can't stop the way you smile - it grows terribly, a slow self-satisfied thing, like the expression of the cat who's finally crushed the wings of the canary.

There is a certain steadiness to Ulysses that flickers in and out of existence. There is a magnetic quality to him, like a magnet being flipped constantly between attraction and repulsion. You prod against the feeling gently, feeling the push and pull of it and staring at the easy way his face sharpens and softens in time to the beat.

It makes him handsome, against all odds. He looks the way a thunderstorm does before it breaks, like the way jade does before it cracks.

Liu Bang was conceived by a dragon. Xiang Yu never stood a chance.

You are fascinated by him, even now, and you want to dig into him to see where the rest of his flaws are. You want to find the thunderstorm he's smothering and hold its lightning in your hands until your palms are burnt, just to see how warm it really feels up close. You want to hang on the slack of his words and then cut yourself free, laugh into his ribcage and pity him for ever thinking he could catch you with something so easy.

It's Yu who does this to you. Her devotion gets tangled with your own obsessive nature until you can't see where one begins and the other ends. It's like living through a keyhole, you exist in a gossamer haze and the air warps around you like a heat mirage. You burn and she soothes, you laugh and she cries. She dies, and you paint yourself in her ashes. Even when the makeup comes off, they still stick to your skin.

You are watching Ulysses so intently then, that you feel him more than you hear him. A very high-pitched noise starts from somewhere behind you, the beginning of a kettle whistling.

"Dan and Chou." He comments with aching levity.

Your smile freezes. It sticks, shifting slightly into something more dangerous, but it doesn’t fall. You picture yourself with your fingers dancing along his spine.

He can play - you'd nearly forgotten.

How silly.

Yu Ji is quieter in moments like these. Even her fidelity is not strong enough to keep you bound. You mould yourself into something terrible. If he can play, he can handle it. If he is better than Cao, quicker, he will see it coming.

It is some kind of cruel comfort that out of everyone, Cao knows you best. Better than even Aloys. There is a certain camaraderie that comes from hatred, and you can mark the passage of time simply by the occasions in which you have torn into him so viciously. Yet, you still catch him off guard. After all these years, it's still like he expects you to be someone else. You are unapologetic with your nature. He doesn't understand this. Perhaps he simply refuses to. He doesn't want to believe that you choose to be so horrible. He wants to believe that you have been made this way, not that you have chosen it.

You have chosen everything that's happened to you. You chose to be this.

Ulysses chooses to offend you and you take the insult and tuck it between your teeth, letting it fester there into something worse.

Ulysses looks at your flowers. You look at him. You watch him chew on a very particular problem -

"You changed the lyrics." He says, like it's some kind of puzzle. "Cao is angry at you because of it."

You shrug slyly. There are bruises hiding underneath him, the edges of his outline are frayed like a well-loved blanket. You sink your teeth into weakness like a fresh cub.

You wait for the shoe to drop, but Ulysses still stares at the flowers. It's still his move - it's his line. And he stands there floundering worse than Yitang. You are disappointed, distantly. You are affronted, presently.

The incredulousness of it flits across your face before you catch it. He speaks sweetly and you flip on a dime. Your smile turns condescending. You soak up his tone and turn it back on him tenfold, little bird, he calls you, and you go downy-soft.

“You’d like to know why.” You repeat, just the slightest touch of disbelief.

You linger razor sharp under the softness, hiding venom underneath something sugary. You smile at Ulysses like you're about to say something very charming and very kind, leaning towards him in a way that seems affectionate. That feeling squeezes between your fists like it's a dying jay and you speak so lovely, curling the rot around your consonants like ribbons. You shine so nicely in this light; the very picture of virtue.

You are an actor, after all.

“I’m sure Cao could explain it to you.” You say with such warmth, such nicety, "Since you're obviously so stupid."

There's a little laughter to it, but you treat it like it's praise. You move like a dance, putting your hands on his shoulders and getting right in his face. Caramel in your teeth, faux sympathy in your cheeks, you layer something that borders on teasing, "You really didn't get it?"

You exaggerate the way you look away, but dig your fingers into him slightly.

"I guess I could tell you. If you didn't want to have to ask him." And this is what you are banking on - you think his curiosity will walk hand in hand with his pride.

He wants to know what you've done. But he will not stoop to admitting that he is dumber than Cao, of all people. Stepping out and asking someone else would only be accepting defeat now. And Ulysses seems like someone whose defeat does not come so easy.

You're very close again. The tips of your fingers start to burn.

"But - " You draw out, syllables going heavy, "I want something in return. A favour maybe. Something I can cash in later."

Your face aches from holding the smile for so long. The heat from him starts to feel dangerous, but you hold tighter. You could have him in your pocket with this. Imagine the look on Cao's face.

"That way, we can help each other out. It's hardly fair if you're the only one benefitting."

[fox]

► ► ►

There's that little shift of posture before he turns carnivorous. You give nearly nothing, and he bites onto it, teeth into a soft belly of doubt, and he catches your meaning immediately. He's been so charming. You almost forgot his sweetness tastes rotten too.

You did not expect his compliance so easily.

"I'm sure Cao could explain it to you." He wears at the edges of your temper with shrewd, bitter coyness. "Since you're obviously so stupid."

But you did not expect him to touch on a weakness.

In the ravine, the foreman had grown thick with bloat, soapy-skinned in the shallow water. In three days, he'd decomposed significantly.

And then here is Yan, who calls you stupid, dying only at a moderate pace.

The silence stretches on. You feel yourself stiffen. The surprise of it provokes something that gets caught in your throat, burning listlessly.

He's disarmed you, and he knows it.

"You really didn't get it?" He asks, pitying.

You can only say nothing, teeth gritted to the point of pain.

Your exhaustion makes you angrier, thawing you, like you're a child again without restraint. Mind like a flowing stream, your grandfather had evaluated with an unmoved expression during one family gathering when you were eight. Learn to control yourself. And what was it that you'd done back then?

Ten years later, it's the memory of kneeling in his study that stays with you, that tiresome punishment.

You're there, on your knees, watching the sun change, waiting for the anger to seep deep into you, falling languidly between your bones like rain. There is a well of hate somewhere inside you. Here now, Yan touches it briefly, gently rippling the water, and there's a sharp pain of uncontrolled resentment, spilling onto your face.

The light shifts. He leans in willfully. His eyes turn from honey to black in your shadow, sleeves brushing across your chest as his hands rest upon your shoulders. You meet the gesture with a stare.

On your knees again, learning detachment. You swallow your temper barely. Into the well.

It feels unbearable.

You have to think.

You observe him, your expression cooling to something tepid. He draws out his victory like this, and you contemplate it, the method in which he lays down a trap and pulls you in. It feels more like intuition than strategy, like he was born with an inclination for blood.

Yan of a month ago had countered you with force. But the Yan before you, still costumed as the consort, is much more sly.

Because in the end, virtuous, loyal Yu Ji had deceived her king. She'd died for him, for her country, but wasn't it deception nonetheless? She had been capable of this soft treachery. She had pulled his own sword from him with little hesitation.

Whether he knows it or not, he plays her with an attitude of war. He subdues in one breath and incenses with another. Searching for vulnerabilities. Tendering the bait. He delights in this. He wants that awfulness, eyes flashing at some semblance of weakness from you. You get the distinct feeling he would find your anger as some lurid victory. He smiles at the ploy and dares you to move because you always lose here. You shouldn't have underestimated him. That is your fault.

Yan looks away, and the light touches his face once more. The pain fades to a dull hum.

"A favour," you repeat, voice quiet.

The mood changes again, incrementally as you avert from his gaze. The silence grows into a third presence. You remember everything he said in this room, sitting in this chair, lighting fires with every turn of the tongue. You remember everything.

You have always preferred force from people. You think you like things straightforward, without fanfare, a sober execution when it comes to work. It's easier to deal with.

But if he wants to play, then so be it.

Finally, you speak. "Last month, I thought you could not be bought." You laugh humourlessly. "Where is that steadfast integrity now?" Taunting, you press on. "No flowers or silks. But a favour –" Your smile becomes cooler, a hardening of your bearing as you shed your airs of sentiment.

He holds you, and you lean in closer, eyes slowly sweeping the vanity full of flowers before flickering back to his face. The implication is there. The words come slow like blood between your teeth, inches away from him. Dangerously soft – "So, is that your price?"

It becomes a war of pride. Which is worse? Stupidity or self-betrayal? Pyrrhic victories. You can admit not knowing. But he will have to admit his worth. You can kill your honour if he kills his.

The moment chills. You straighten your spine, and the light falls between the space of your bodies, a strange barrier of separation. Lazily, you peel his hands off your shoulders. Your expression becomes indolent again, and you move away from him to the vanity, fingers curling around the single rose wrapped in paper. You pick it off from the table and examine it. One of the petals is slightly bruised, darker than red.

"Alright Mr. Li," light with mockery, "A favour. You have my word."

You lose, but he doesn't get to win.

"You know many people like me – so you've said." There is something intensely unkind how you say this, despite the lightness of your tone. You play with the rose between your fingers, casual in your demeanour. "How many favours have you asked for?"

And then, crueler still – "What else have you exchanged, little bird?"

[calla]

► ► ►

The look on his face is precious. His jaw goes tight and you want to dig your fingers into the sides of it, force it open to hear what he's hiding so fiercely. You feel the tenseness of his shoulders under your hands like stone, he doesn't even try to hide it, and your smile splits wider.

You wear fidelity on your face, but the way you look at Ulysses now is near starving. The room goes quiet as you watch seasons flit across his face. He seems untethered. Unbalanced. He feels like a world-ender under your palms. He meets your eyes and there's something terrible there. You only watch it in rapture. There's something important in the folds of his wrath.

He was much better at hiding this last time.

You've touched a nerve, you realize. And you delight in it, letting something show plainly for once. You want to draw it out, coax it a little. You want to see his temper in clearer light.

"A favour." He echos quietly.

"Yes." You say, giddy from the idea.

You watch him pull himself back together - the most fascinating thing. You watch a chill settle over him and feel the candle of yourself flicker in response. It's a thing that leaves you breathless.

"I thought you could not be bought." He says like an autumn breeze, the whisper of winter on the horizon. "Where is that steadfast integrity now?"

That makes you look at him curiously. You wonder if it's meant to cut. You're almost delighted at these attempts now. He's back to trying, at least. Clumsier now, perhaps because you nudged him off course with your lovely insult, but you like watching his mind work as you keep throwing these things at him.

"Integrity." You muse, tilting your head nearer to him, "I don't remember promising that."

Actors have no integrity, every lesson says. Your moral compass was smashed and buried years ago. You are honest in your ruthlessness. You do not shy away from the horrible way you exist. You are a liar, and a cheat, and terribly selfish, and this is all part of your charm.

"And you haven't bought me." You tell him through the proximity, inching closer and closer, "Not yet."

But Ulysses is stalling. Leaning in. You think he might still be recovering, and your gaze drifts over every part of his face, amused with this new angle he's attempting.

Then you're close enough to feel him speak. That starving quality falls back into your eyes, the proximity returns the rapture. He is remarkable like this, something dizzying about the breadth of him, even if the warmth of that hatred's been smothered. There's something beautiful to the way that it still seeps out in some places - a tick of his mouth, a flash of his eyes. You pluck the moments out gently. You'll never say it out loud.

“You’re deflecting.” You sing-song, vicious in the delight of it.

“If you think silk is worth the same thing as a favour, then you must really be stupid.”

Your smile is sharpened by stones.

“I could ask you to do anything.” Your head tilts, “Everything.”

That is your price. That is what you're worth. What is one bouquet to the endless possibilities of anything? What is the cost of fabric when compared to the expanse of everything?

It should frighten him.

Integrity, he had mocked. While he's the one giving himself away for a stupid piece of trivia.

The absence that comes when he moves away then is startling. Like sudden rain - a wash of sense. Your hands fall to your sides but the warmth stays in your face, hidden under layers of powder. You feel stuck in a rebirth, watching his fingers press against the rose petals. You catch the moment the silhouette of him turns cruel. There's something captivating about it.

"How many favours have you asked for?" He asks, in a way that turns you burning.

"What else have you exchanged?" He asks, in a way that turns you blazing.

Little bird, he calls you again. His favourite title, you notice keenly. Demeaning in any other context, it makes your chin lift here.

You stare at him. Let him feel it. You feel his insinuation, digest it, but watch him closely. There is no shame to your posture, there's something sturdier instead, but there is something strange to his. You watch him for a moment longer before something shifts.

You slowly light up. That morbid playfulness fills you and sets in like a spring thaw, creeping across your skin until your fingertips are buzzing with it. Sidling up to him again with a measured step, you hook your chin over his shoulder and watch his face in the mirror. Your expression is foul now, lingering again somewhere between coy and cruel, you wear a demon's grin, teeth sharpened.

"Wouldn't you like to know." You say very close to his neck, turning it into a sigh.

"A valiant attempt." You assure him mockingly. "But that would cost you more."

You look at the rose in his hands, "I could tell you who that one was from." You reach around him to brush a finger against the baby's breath on his chest, "Or this."

Then you settle on his face again, an image next to the ghost of your own.

"But, one favour." You state. "So you only get one answer."

You keep him in suspense a moment longer, and then finally -

"I changed the lyrics." You confirm. "Cao was just over-exaggerating, he's afraid of the Keepers."

You shift to hide your grin in his shoulder, "I thought Liu Bang would look better in white."

[fox]

► ► ►

Stupid he calls you again, and you merely shrug. Everything he says with such conviction, and you could almost laugh at this with bitter amusement.

Your anger stills fully.

Something about it becomes clinical, like a dissection of the anatomy of your resentment as you turn the rose in your hands, thinking.

You watch how his demeanour goes hazy with fire at your insinuation. There is no pretense of morality. He is loyal to nothing but himself. He's aggravatingly conceited. He could infuriate a person by breathing. But he's not simply spiteful.

Yan suddenly appears in the mirror. There's the soft weight of his chin on your shoulder, the warmth of his words brushing against your neck.

Your hands grip in reflex.

His touch feels like a strange nuisance, something startling when it happens. You leave, and he follows like a vine of ivy towards the sun. You take one step back, and he only moves two steps closer, his arm now draping around you to touch the fragile stem of baby's breath. Your gaze lifts towards his reflection. There's that terrible beauty, bordering on a blaze again, expression utterly fiendish.

He burns with triumph.

You begin to understand.

He plays the consort so impeccably. And you entertain it – you're nearly indulgent. He doesn't quite get angry at your implication, instead his deception becomes more heavy-handed.

But what does he expect from you? Are you supposed to be daunted, deceived, or are you supposed to flutter at some stroking of an ego as he mimes adoration, becoming wrought with desire? Are his words supposed to be sweeter if he touches you gently, his cruelty more palatable, your resolve weaker? You stare at him, eyes hardening slightly.

Is he that vain?

Does he think you're an idiot?

Fine, you can appreciate the attempt to bring you to heel. You're used to force, coercion, the foulness of politics. No one had ever tried to entangle you like this.

Maybe because it's impossibly stupid.

You force your shoulders to settle.

"Are you making bargains now?" The look on your face turns apathetic, and you toss the rose onto the table lazily. "You're right. A favour is expensive."

Carefully, you turn your head towards him, still perched on your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He always looks striking up close.

"But lies are cheap."

He is less than an inch from you, and your voice cools to a conversational murmur. "You're gambling on my character." There's a hint of a taut smile. "You're certain I'm an honest man. I'm flattered."

He should understand this better than anyone. There are no ethics in achievement. And you do not require honesty to gain trust or power. People care very little about promises, offering assurances when beneficial, swearing loyalty when needed. Whether they are kept or not depends on the consequence, the gain, the price. You wonder if he honestly believes he's worth more than a lie.

Diaochan, you remember. Your mouth tastes bitter.

At least silk is real.

You lean in, pausing at his ear, the softness seeping. "But do you think you could make me do something I didn't already want to?"

The moment lingers. Yan still has what you want, so you don't push further, and he stays quiet. There's something indecipherable in his gaze. You realize he's asking you to choose with his silence, but you find it pointless. You said it not out of curiosity. You said it to be unkind. You do not think that most of Yan's admirers would be so discreet that you couldn’t find them out if you chose to.

You could, if you wanted. You always could.

The rose lies there, thornless.

"I changed the lyrics."

You stare at him through the mirror. There's a barely concealed grin.

"I thought Liu Bang would look better in white."

It comes like a wave, the understanding.

You didn't expect this. But you're less surprised than you anticipated. He toys with you. Why wouldn't he try to play with another knife.

You wonder how he got so far in life without someone snapping his neck. Perhaps that is his charm.

"Hm," a vague hum of acknowledgement. You smile wanly.

Smoothly, you shift to fully face him, leaning with your back to the mirror, evaluating. The smile fades to a distinct lack of expression. You're gauging this information. It feels less like an answer than an invitation for interrogation, but you're not keen to play twenty questions until Yan spits out some semblance of a response. You take your time, drenched in silence, absently tracing the lip of the vase of orchids with your hand.

It's obvious in some ways. Self-preservation is Cao's greatest skill. He maintains a type of tenuous balance between himself and each force in his life very cautiously. Cowardice has its merits. Yan, the great destabilizer, had gone too far for Cao's comfort so it seems.

But Yan was being understated. You doubt the layperson picked it up, and you hold an even greater doubt that the weary peacekeepers had been attentive enough. If Yitang had not stuttered over the change, it would have been barely noticed. If Daming hadn't slapped Yan, you wouldn't have been as interested.

It isn't the particular line that you consider. It isn't Cao's response. You fold your hands together and watch Yan plainly, openly, appraising him.

Perhaps you were right with your initial assessment. There is no premeditated strategy. It's intuition purely.

You thought he would not betray you – because he couldn't. You assumed he would rather die on stage than live off of it. If he uncovers you, then he exposes Baishe too. There are no options for survival if you die. And yet, he seems so very keen in his own suicide. You're not Xiang Yu.

You could really kill him.

The thought is cool, barely disturbed, strangely unvarnished. You hold his gaze. You placate yourself. The well goes deeper, until there's nothing but the silk surface of your anger.

"Why? You weren't sufficiently entertained by your normal aggravation of Cao?" Your tone becomes more clipped, though the casualness remains. You're done expecting normal answers to normal questions.

"Or are you getting bored of playing consort Yu? Feigning death without the true thrill of it."

There's an edge of cold malice. You move closer to him, eyeing the fading mark on his cheek.

"Or do you think you are untouchable?"

[calla]

► ► ►

You watch Ulysses' expression in the mirror, feeling him tense again beneath the press of your chin. You wonder, in a detached sort of way, where this rigidity comes from. He had been fine when you'd taken his arm in the greenroom. He had played into it and filled out his role, touched your hand gently in front of an audience.

Maybe he's simply a performer as well. You're somehow tickled by the thought.

But you can't hide the look on your face now - your mouth being tucked behind the slope of him only means that it shines in your eyes brighter. Intensely, you watch him ponder you.

That winter chill falls over him again, and you shiver against the breadth of his back.

The way he shuts himself frustrates you. It's nearly infuriated the way he does it, and the ease with which he can do it. Actors wear their hearts on their faces and cradle knives in their sleeves. They let their victims see the metal glint.

You feel him move before you see it. Ulysses tilts his head slightly, just enough to make your breath stutter, just so that you can make out the shade spectrum of his eyes with a single glance. If the proximity had been shocking before, it's dazzling now. You're struck into that rare silence for a moment, the air going still, and you're certain that it's Yu standing there beside you with her hand around your throat, her generous fidelity stopping whatever next cruel thing you were going to say, turning you pliant and cunning and inevitable.

Ulysses leans in ever closer and Yu's grip tightens. Her nails cut into your skin and you bleed the same way she does - without any sort of spillage, for the eyes of an audience alone, in a fake little stage trick.

Maybe you are simply delusional. On several counts.

Ulysses brushes off your heavy-handedness as though it's nothing, like he was a prude in another life. Or in this one. The dissuasion burns slightly, but he underestimates your tenacity for getting the things you want.

From beside you, Yu laughs.

How many times did she try to convince Xiang Yu into different strategy, to change his mind? How many times was her counsel disregarded? And her dismissal was their downfall. She knew it. It didn't matter if he listened to her or not in the end, she soothed Xiang Yu just enough to be able steal his sword. Her last act was one of sound instinct. Now she's spoken of in terms her devotion, and her loyalty, but she had a tacticians mind. And you have her mind.

Yet you have no such plans of soothing Ulysses.

You watch him work through the understanding. His response begins mildly, like a delicate unfolding, and you can't quite hide your disappointment.

You expected a reaction. You think that he knows you expected a reaction. It's as though you can suddenly feel the scales tipping between you and you rebel against the sensation, gritting your teeth and bloodying your fingers trying to hold on.

Ulysses turns, sudden enough that you have to cover the slight stumble it causes with a languid movement of posture. The recovery is swift though, you go to preen under his appraisal, expectant, waiting for either praise or reprimanding. But he just keeps standing there, watching, saying nothing. You falter as his empty silence stretches on. You nearly snap at him to get out with it.

Then his voice changes as he finally speaks, and your entire face shifts again.

He moves closer with something that edges on a threat and you bare your teeth, it's the mockery of a grin now and there is nothing soft left in it. There are embers pressed against your tongue and still, you prod. You press. You burn yourself on your own little flame and blame him for lighting it.

And then Ulysses says something that, in your presence, is a very damning thing.

"Or do you think you are untouchable?" He asks, in a way that you suspect is supposed to sound menacing.

He means it violently. You hear it, you take it, twist it. The connotation of it drains. The mask flips. You get a grip on the scales and yank them towards you, pulling at the little red string until you have enough to strangle him with.

Your playfulness turns into something dangerous, your mouth turns in a bitter sort of amusement. Your gaze dances over the flowers and you cradle that implication he threw at you: all your little favours, all your little admirers. Untouchable, he accuses. You turn it over and over and let him see the pale underbelly of it. You glance away as if you're recalling something. Untouchable, he tells you, untouchable. You stage act, exaggerate it, ah hah! You've just remembered.

You do a very specific movement then; looking over his shoulder to the mirror, you press your thumb to the edge of your lip, fixing a smudged line of red. You look at him, at the flowers, at your own mouth in the mirror. Untouchable. He has the significant pleasure and disadvantage of not being in your head. You'd like to forcibly drag him in. See how he likes it.

Untouchable, accuses. You say, "Evidently not."

You fasten onto it still, holding the sharp edges of it, inject a vein of innocent curiosity into it, "Do I seem untouchable to you?"

Because he has not yet. You have held his arm, brushed against him, rested the weight of your head against his shoulder. He has pulled you off at every turn. Plucked you. Moved away.

"Fraternizing isn't discouraged, you know."

Patronage is half the business. It's half of the game. You glance at the flowers again, just because you can.

That sends your eyes to the mirror again. You're still half in costume. Lilian always takes the headpieces first, the jewelry, the precious things, and then the rest of the process is more leisurely. You've found that it's often a shock to the system to take it all off at once, it's like stripping a layer of skin off.

Yu doesn't wear her outer cloak for her final scene, that's hanging somewhere backstage already. It's one of the older pieces anyways, the embroidery's delicate and not fit for running around in afterwards. What you're left with is the blue inner robe, the white shift and the undersleeves, Lilian took the belt too, but the scaled tongqun is still there, with its proud peacock hanging from your waist.

Your shoulders slowly drift downwards. Your poker face is terrible, but you can see your act of sound instinct very clearly now. The atmosphere shifts slightly, the same way it does when it's about to storm. Any sweetness has disappeared, as though it was never there to begin with.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re really here, or do you also want a favour for it?”

He is off balance, yes, but not significantly. Not enough. You take a moment to look at him very deliberately. Here is the victory; there's a plain dare in your face, a line you're toeing that you know he won't cross. You turn around.

"Would you?" The tongqun binding is wrapped around your waist several times, tied, then tucked under itself, like a complicated apron, "I can never get the knot from behind."

[fox]

► ► ►

In certain moments, Yan feels more like a fire than a person. His demeanour flares like a flame in your silence. When you speak again, he burns on the embers of it.

He doesn't answer your questions in a way that gives you anything. You didn't think he would. You construct an image of him purely on how he reacts to your words, your spite, your attention or lack thereof, all the slight idiosyncrasies that unfold with each viewing.

Bit by bit, his expression changes, each gesture performed to the tempo of his ruthlessness. His mouth twists into a grin, thumb to his lips, coming away with a smudge of red, the line sharpened. In the light, the powdery paint looks almost translucent, and you can see the faint pink of his cheeks beneath it, the thin blue of his veins on his wrist as the sleeves fall.

A sensation pools in the hollows of your chest. You feel it, that mild fascination, despite yourself, despite the malice.

Because you can see his moves so evidently, and yet still not understand him fully. He throws a thousand moods at you and conceals one. You wear one face but drown everything else. There's something impossible about this contradiction of being between the two of you.

His attention turns to you again, and you stare back. The performance of curiosity is fractured with vindictiveness.

"Do I seem untouchable to you?"

Some feeling flickers in you, but doesn't surface all the way to your face, caught in your throat and then withers before you speak. You only become colder when the moment passes. His eyes come to rest at the flowers, and your gaze follows.

"A rose isn't untouchable because of its thorns." Leisurely, your eyes find him again. "Just unpleasant."

You watch, in the absence of his stare, how his bearing settles. He brews like a storm. The cool blue of his costume contrasts him in a strange manner. With mild amusement, you wonder who decided on this change. The peacock was an apt choice.

He's still performing the consort, but that sickly sweetness is gone. For the first time, he says something direct. Measuredly, he turns around. You tilt your head in question.

"Would you?"

Your answer was not satisfactory apparently.

He presents himself in this delicate armour. The realization of how he touches you brings an understanding of this gesture. You've brushed him aside. He takes this discomfort and shapes it. Your hesitation becomes admittance, but your compliance anticipates intimacy. His question lingers, you study him.

You trace his outline carefully. He has a keen sense of persuasion, a kind of poisonous allurement. A person could choke on it. It's almost impressive.

It doesn't work on you.

Without a word, you reach for him.

Your hand curls around the strings on his waist, tugging to bring him closer.

The fish-scaled skirt flutters at the sudden movement, gold thread glinting. You pull at the ends of the knot, loosening it, methodical in your motions, a terseness that feels mundane. Each time he tries again, you become more accustomed to his attempts. You adjust to this version of him. Your impassiveness becomes unyielding.

The strings untie in your hands.

"I never apologized," you say, but there is no sincerity in your tone. It's hollow. "For not meeting you sooner."

You had expected the anatomy he'd bared last month, that hot-bloodedness, his spleen, his hunger. He's more than you believed, more shrewd and more reckless. It would be prudent to tell him less, but his usefulness doesn't change. You thread your arms around his waist and uncross the front. The skirt slackens slightly.

"But you've noticed the peacekeepers, apparently." It's not quite derisive. You say it steadily.

Baishe exists again because it was the metal Baron's passion project and your father's bank account. Nine was never like One or Two. Nine was a place where even the most simple kind of beauty felt frivolous, the reminders of destitution hanging like flags in the streets, tattered and raw. There was hardly any room for opera. The wealthy patrons and the surge of interest after the victories in the games made it viable, barely.

But now, the old industry is dead. The wealth built on production and factory ownership is collapsing as you speak. Some can temper the losses, others can't.

"And you've noticed Daming lacks decisiveness. He prefers to be uninvolved." You brush along his waist again as you unravel him, a light touch that shakes the red fringes of the skirt. "But impartiality only goes so far."

There's a certain flatness to how you recount all this. You spent some time contemplating the move, and now you're simply proceeding with it. There is a folder that will be sent to Cao. The expenses will be recouped from the bar, and you anticipate that should be enough assurance to assuage him of the cost aspect. The briefing is just a formality. You did this to be polite. In the end, he doesn't have a choice. "Daming will introduce a military discount."

But there is something else to this, other than the maintenance of the opera.

You glance at Yan briefly, though you cannot see his face.

The constitution of power is changing. The families of Nine will begin to draw favour from the high-ranking officers. And with this, you have an intuition that there will be a sharp shift in how the Forum views you, a seeping realization of your use, your generational inheritance, the blue-bloodedness of your name. You will be watched in a way you have not been before. You have to entertain the new influx of power while being observed. You require someone else.

The peacekeepers will come and listen to the arias. They'll be dressed in their uniforms and maintain their faces, but a person could feel a tremor before a landslide happens in a space like this, a corner of the world that feels shaded from eyes. You want to sweeten the opportunity.

Your attention falls back to the skirt, heavy with its metal studs.

"I'm sure there will be new patrons who will seek you to fraternize." You halt for a moment, a sharper quality returning to your voice. "It shouldn't be difficult for you to handle, as you've demonstrated."

Swiftly, you pull the skirt off him, tossing it onto the chair.

For a moment, your hands rest at his waist in drawn silence, staring at the curve of his back, the slight shifting of his posture. He understands your meaning, but you aren't stupid to think think acceptance will come easy. He fought you for a lyric. Now you ask him for something much greater.

But you're not asking. Formalities. The civility of the guise of choice. Promises that you're still considering if you'll keep.

You make things more palatable, as you were taught to.

Then, you reach for the ties of the pleated inner skirt below, giving a harsh pull. "This one too?" You feign a smile. "Or are you done using me as a handmaid?"

[calla]

► ► ►

You're quite smug with your dare. You expect to catch Ulysses in his bluff, already reaching for the answers he'll give through his discomfort. The way you've clawed into him makes you cocky, your fingers dance along the victory.

Then he pulls, and you, unprepared, actually stumble into it. Your exhalation is fast and surprised, gasped out before you can take it back or reign it in. Your feet skid against the floor and the sound is embarrassingly loud. He's not gentle, he jostles and threatens your balance and speaks plainly while you try to hide your very genuine surprise.

This is the point where it's fortunate he can't see your face. Your jaw creaks from the force you chain it down with, your hands lift slightly when he tugs again, at the mercy of his disposition. You're about to make some snide comment, something that will let you recover this, but you go impossibly still when his arms tighten, passing across you to unwind those suddenly traitorous strings. You're suddenly paranoid of the way your breathing changes, irrationally afraid of the way he might hear your heart rate suddenly skyrocket.

You try desperately to latch onto what he's saying and the conniving little part of you knows that he is doing this on purpose. You would almost be impressed, if it wasn't happening to you.

Decisiveness, he says as he brushes your waist.

Fraternize, he says into the back of your neck.

You've always wondered if the phrase 'weak in the knees' came from a real phenomenon.

But then Ulysses pulls the skirt away from you and the sound of it smacking down snaps you out of your stupor. You nearly turn at the offence, the embroidery around your ribcage catching, you hiss at him, “Be careful.”

And then the warmth of his palms sinks in. The moment shifts into a molasses type of slowness. You lean forward slightly, testing, and when his hold stays, the click of your throat is audible.

You hum, short breathes through your nose. “And if I say no, you kill me?”

It's a flat statement. More of a delay than anything. A chance to catch your bearings. You've gone so tense that it's a miracle the brittleness of your bones hasn't foiled you yet. Now is usually the point where you dance away. This is the pull part of the push and pull. You've perfected the art of teasing just enough to get what you want, leaving your prey wanting enough that they'll come back, but not too wanting that they get pushy with it. You are acutely aware of the lessened security in the theatre. Feng standing as sentinel feels like ages ago.

Ulysses, ultimately, makes your decision for you. You barely have a thought to process what he's saying before he's the one doing the pulling. Again. A bright flash of panic crosses you in that moment, whether from his words or from the movement, it doesn't matter. Your centre of gravity gets pulled backwards and you fall with a sound of surprise, your arms shooting up, down, behind you, anywhere to try and stop it.

It all happens very quickly. You land with an oof against Ulysses's chest and your grip on his arms, vainly keeping yourself up, is unbearably tight.

You freeze. You think you might feel him freeze too.

You scramble suddenly, to find a way to play off the way you have suddenly gone uneasy.

You touch the waist of the inner skirt, "You don't want to have to replace both of them." You try, aiming for levity, like his treatment of these expensive costumes is a joke, but your grip is slipping. You know it doesn't work, it's a flimsy excuse, but you're thinking of something else now.

A very strange thought slides into place, in his arms, as you hear his request, his demand, rattle around and around the room.

"Fraternize." You repeat as though you've just processed it, almost numbly, almost shocked, if not for the way it trails and splinters off at the end.

You wonder if he's figured out just how much of that fraternization was a bluff of your own. How many times have you ducked out of the room during a fraternization, feigning Aloys calling your name? How many advances and how many wandering hands have you delicately extracted yourself from, displeasing certain patrons enough that they stomp down to Cao's office to complain that you are being too standoffish and unaccommodating?

Too unpleasant.

You do not stoop. You do not bow or kneel or any other synonym for it. It's fun to play, but you will take the insults over the disgrace any day. You will accept the loss of patronage - they can watch you from afar in their seats, or they don't watch you at all.

And here, with your shoulder digging into Ulysses's chest, locked in the cradle of his arms, maybe you think, this has been his own test. He wanted to see how you'd approach his task. He has playing the aloof Peacekeeper and you, unknowingly, have been playing yourself. You’ve been auditioning for him, working with different copies of the same script this whole time. It’s a strange disposition.

You've always assumed that everyone has an act, yet the idea that Ulysses was not here simply for you sets you slightly off kilter again. You taste the thought. Breathe through it. It’s hard to tell whether it stings or not.

And here is the lesson burned into you. You can feel the words as they pass over, knowing them better than any lyric: they will always want something from you. How foolish of you to think otherwise. Really, this thing you've walked into is a trap of your own making. You should've known better.

You do know better.

The Emperor was infatuated with Feiyan. Whoever the discount lures in will be infatuated with you.

If that's what this has been -

how far are you willing to go in this? This job? This role?

The resignation settles over your anger like a particularly ineffective balm. Funny enough, the game isn't quite as entertaining now. Ulysses is just another Daming, albeit a better dressed one. A rich boy who fancies himself in charge.

Yet you are a thing of singular purpose. You would be nothing without this. You have no other skills outside of the opera. You’re not particularly clever or kind, and you are not naive enough to think you could possibly do anything else with your life.

The theatre prides its own education over all else and it certainly shows - many of the other actors can only read their designated lines, some of them need their parts read aloud several times so that they can be memorized. Yaoqing made you just self-sufficient enough that it would cripple you in any other situation, to know everything about performing and nothing about life. He knew this. You know that he knew this. How better to keep a child in the theatre than to make it their everything? Their only thing?

In another life, you could have been anything, you could have been like Ulysses - and isn't that a funny thought.

Your talent is a blessing and a curse and became the lock on this gilded cage very early on. You are a weapon turned in on yourself.

Do you think a man thinks twice before using a knife he owns?

You almost ask him. Throw his own words back. You are owned by countless. Every single person in that audience owns some part of you - they've paid for it, after all. There aren't many pieces of you left to keep for yourself. Of course Ulysses would not consider this. You are the knife, he's just waited all this time to finally brandish you.

It didn't bother you then, but it bothers you know. You burn with something barely restrained. You've been thrown off terribly, your back pressed against Ulysses' chest for that split second until you turn fierce again, coy again, grasping that last line of defence as you reach behind yourself to vaguely brush up his arms and follow the line of them to the back of his neck. Your nails trace where the collar meets the skin, not gently.

You find your footing in the role. All traces of that earlier insecurity forcibly fades away. You chip away at it. Something in your pride leaves you shaken, but you pile onto the feeling with falsities and your own brand of cloying, belligerent attention. There's something soothing about that, something which leaves you carved jagged. You chew on the glass you've shattered and swallow it down, grinning with blood in your teeth. The familiarity of it is unpleasant. You revel in it.

If he wants to see how you play, you'll show him.

"So then this was a practice run.” You surmise, tilting your head back against his shoulder and letting mock surprise colour your tone. You sigh, letting your chin loll back and forth slowly, "And here I thought you didn't want a Diaochan."

Then you turn in his arms, liquid, your forearms rest against his throat as you lace your hands behind his head.

"Did I pass?" You ask him playfully, trying to mask that awful, traitorous disappointment. You hide your hurt behind your eyes, disguise the resignation, leaning in close to his face, too close, "Would you have given me all your secrets?"

You don't give him a chance to respond, just laughing to yourself like you've told a funny little anecdote and pushing off of him. You beeline to where he's thrown the costume and busy yourself in folding it properly, hiding a tremor, then tenderly laying it back down.

You tell yourself that you're not upset, and so you're not.

"You want me to what, spy on them? Report back-" you still don't look up at him, but you let your voice pitch up in doubt, "to you?"

He won't have your acquisition so easily.

"Or do I have to wear a wire so you can hear everything?” There's that pointedness again. The softness is gone from you, you've drowned Yu and replaced her with something that is only bitterly yourself. There's a familiar meanness to you that comes out in moments like this, your body language turns standoffish but your tone doesn't lose its flirtation, “If that’s what you wanted, you didn’t need all the fanfare.”

[fox]

► ► ►

He stumbles when you pull. His surprise feels like a stutter, and you observe it with mild satisfaction.

You remember the toy you received when you were barely four, watching a bird flap its wings in circles through rotating slits. It's like that, peering through a zoetrope that suddenly stops. There are no more half-gestures of being in between acts, and the illusion of perpetual motion is broken. It should be easier to read him like this, and yet your understanding becomes more muddled. You expected displeasure at your curtness more than his jagged, rigid silence.

When he finally speaks, his tone is even. The acerbity of the fact curdles the joke, but you laugh anyway.

Because something about his statement is grimly amusing. He does not know you, and he has not asked. In the month you'd been away, he remembers you only now at his convenience. Would you kill him? Funny, how you thought of his murder just minutes ago. Your hands rest on his waist in false contemplation, almost in jest. Would you?

If you have ever spared anyone, it was not to possess some moral quality – but simply because you weren't done with them yet. There's an intensity and specificity of how you accomplish your goals. You would not have survived this long if you were anything but relentless.

The narrative begs for sympathy. You could say four long years had sharpened you, like living with a blade for a rib. But the narrative is a liar. Because you were always like this. Your life was a lesson in disciplined, necessary cruelty. You were raised watching the particular obsessiveness of your father. He gave this to you, like he gave you the box, like he gave you the gun.

Yan moves from your grasp, and you yank him back in. Here is his answer.

This time, you're too harsh. You feel the slip of gravity before it happens. And in sharp instinct, your arm slides around him to break the fall, pulling him close. You hold him, and he grips onto you.

And then, he stiffens against you.

Your chest tightens, breath caught between exhales, his shoulder blades pressed where your lungs are.

Very quickly you try to let go, but he holds you in place.

He does not feel like Yu Ji anymore. It isn't a measured thing, a premeditated gesture to tease something from you. Instead, he reached for you, and you reacted. Two reflexes. It's stripped bare. He loses the polished quality of his act, and you feel it vanish in your arms, bitterly real.

He shifts slightly, and the weight lessens, but he's still leaning against you. The movement shakes you alert. Your mouth tastes metallic.

You had intended to use him as an alibi and nothing more. Beneath the pageantry, you could visit Daming without much suspicion. Your aunt was shrewd enough to seize the family accounts in your father's possession. But it had been purely luck that your father had made Cao trustee the year he died. His ownership was hidden, and you kept it so. Yan, with all his infamy, would've been a ridiculous enough reason to not be questioned.

Instead, the peacekeepers have come ten years too early, and the Forum tightens its fist as it feels the growing presence of the Capitol. It doesn't really matter in the end. It becomes an opportunity, and then Yan, coincidentally presents himself like an opportunity too.

You stare at his frame, thinking. It was supposed to be purely spiteful. You didn't care about the veracity of what you'd implied. But he brushed it off and played along so well, it hardly mattered what was true anymore, as long as you got what you wanted from him. You watched the details of his shoulders, his spine, as each loop of the cords had unraveled, wondering how much of it was a performance too. You weren't sure if he had expected you to be gentle or if he hadn't expected you at all. And when you spoke, you felt him falter briefly at your proposition, but only viewed it with skepticism.

Now, it occurs to you that he might've been bluffing.

The revelation feels raw. Maybe, he didn't think you would go so far.

But as soon as you consider this possibility, Yan changes. One hand reaches towards the back of your neck, burning with a new shade of ruthlessness, nails scraping into your skin, and you grit your teeth, burying the desire to take his hand off you with crushing contempt.

The shock settles, and he's teasing again, he's somewhere between languid water and raging fire. You do not answer. You suppose whatever makes it more palatable to him is fine. If he wants to think of himself as Diaochan, if he wants to soak in delusion and believe he could launch a thousand ships with his beauty, then so be it. You do not care what he has to do to convince himself of his virtue. Instead, you brush past his words brusquely.

"Can you please let go." The irritation deadens the way you exhale the breath caught in your chest. "You're heavy."

He doesn't. He only turns towards you, fingers locking behind your head, your eyes widening at the gesture before you catch yourself. You're able to drop your arms from him now, but he leans even closer without the barrier, your silhouette casting blue shadows that outline his nose, his cheekbones, half in darkness, half in light. You can feel the warmth of his presence, deceptively soft, and your expression hardens.

Before you can react, he laughs and pushes you off.

"Did you pass?" You repeat drily. You watch him handle the skirt, folding it and smoothing the fabric out with care. You still feel those hands at the nape of your neck. The memory of it makes you almost snarky in your tone.

"You could try speaking less next time."

He doesn't look at you.

"Seems like you don't have to do anything you don't usually." You say it off-handedly, carelessly, but there's a sharpness beneath that seeks blood. "But whatever makes it easier."

Fanfare, he says, and you almost laugh in disbelief. The peacock suggests it didn't want attention, how terribly funny.

"I'll keep that in mind." Your voice is flat. The doubt slips away as you look at him, as you think of him, a breath away from you, the ferocity underneath his touch. It doesn't matter anyway, even if he had been bluffing. He can play his role – that fact you are well acquainted with now.

Idly, you fix your collar, looking away towards the door. Your demeanour becomes increasingly impersonal with every word. "If you want something, you should state now." You glance at your watch, adjusting it on your wrist. "Something measurable. Cao can increase your wages, if you wish."

[calla]

► ► ►

He doesn't shut up. Your nail catches on a thread. It pulls, a single inch of embroidery unravels, and you stare at it in disgruntled surprise.

You're not upset. It washes over you cleanly.

You throw the entire skirt down in disgust.

Ulysses' handsomeness has suddenly soured the mood.

How unfortunate.

It's never a good idea to play with the pretty ones; they're too used to the fawning and the fluttering, they get too entitled with it. You've observed Ulysses' prudishness and marked it off as expectation. He knew what he was coming here for. He was evaluating it. Entitled with it. And you, silly little Yu, danced for him. Sang for him! Stood there beating your delicate little wings against the expanse of his chest.

That terrible desire comes to you again - not for him, but of him. Of his hurt, the colour of his rage, the sound his knuckles make when they pop. A child weaned on poison thinks harm is a comfort. You wonder how far your favour would push him.

There is Cao, who, on most days, you would very much like to see taken down a peg or five. But there are others too. Small things. Tiny slights. You're very good at getting people to love you, but you're even better at getting them to hate you. That's self-soothing in a way, like spinning silk and counting ribs, there's a power in the way you play with devotion.

It's a beautifully ugly thing.

"You could try speaking less next time." He suggests.

"Can't imagine what you'd rather have me doing." You mutter, a bitter sort of sarcasm bleeding through, a gentle blanket for the sulking.

You aren't pleased, that's obvious now. Twice now he has needled at you. Twice now you've felt as through you've lost something you have no name for. He bites at you still, and watches you bleed onto the floor. Your posture turns petulant; a child who's had their new toy taken away.

Such a good little actor, but still you are ruled by your emotions. You flip between your extremes rapidly, never quite settling. Even Yu couldn't reign this in.

You feel your grip on the rope between you slipping further and further. Ulysses is pulling himself out and leaving you in the pit to die. He's pointed with his poison, veiled still, yes, but there is a preciseness to him that makes you burn.

How does he know to batter at you like this? No one is that intuitive. If they were, then he would be the one on the floor, dizzy from blood loss and the overwhelming force of you.

You would be the one winning, with gore stuck under your nails from the way you would pull him apart.

Then, something measurable, he says.

You stop, seeing something he can't.

You could double down on the favours, but there’s something nagging at you now. It's not the first thing that tips you off, but it is perhaps the biggest - what control does he have over wages?

He has some sway over Cao, that much is obvious, but that leash must be tight if this is how he flaunts it.

There are several facts that you’ve amassed over these visits. One, is that Cao is more afraid of Ulysses than he is of you. You don't particularly take kindly to that, but it feels important. Two, Ulysses’ has been easily let backstage twice now, not just into any area, but to your area. He has made his way to you twice. Your opinions on fate do not play into this. And three, he holds himself highly. It shows there in his posture, in the threading of his shirt, the gold flashing demurely on his wrist. But he has not said anything highly until now.

You feel, very suddenly, as though you're missing something.

"What I want." You say it distractedly. To fill the silence while you stare hard at the fabric under your fingers.

You’re certainly good at getting what you want. But when has it ever mattered what you wanted, really? It’s a continual paradox. You can't name the thing you want, because the thing you want doesn't exist. It's impossible. You're not even quite sure what it is yourself. It’s just easier to lie. Yes, you want the jewels. Yes, you want the silks. Yes, you want the material things that don’t really mean anything, because anything further than that is unattainable. A sparrow quilts its nest with soft leaves and moth wings, not with promising words and declarations.

You look up from the fabric, turning your face to him fully. He bears the full brunt of your glare. Your eyes have narrowed into something distrustful. The love is gone.

You are astutely aware of the unfairness of this now. Who knows what Cao, the treacherous little toad, has told him about you? You suddenly face the flash of your entire childhood. Of course he would humour you with orchids. Of course, of course. You are half-prepared for him to start calling you Feiyan, to grip the space between your lungs and pull until you can't breathe. His attention goes from a glow to a scorch. He's mocking you. You're paranoid.

You know nothing about him in comparison. You hadn't cared enough the first time he was here - he'd left the building and had just as easily left your mind.

Funny how he occupies it so fully now.

Very funny.

But what do you want?

You want to know how this stupid little pretender can possibly have control over the wages. You want to know why Cao licks his boots when they've never even touched the stage.

“Ulysses Xie." You say derisively, testing the name and still finding it lacking.

You'd told him that you'd never heard of him before, and you meant it. Your fists clench so tightly that your knuckles turn white. Your nails dig into your palms to form a moon shaped mockery.

The sound drips and falls to the floor in the wide space between you, tightly wound, demanding, "Tell me who you are.”

[fox]

► ► ►

Raw as a wound, the air clots around him as you speak. He stares at the expanse of fabric, eyes narrowed, the irritation plain on his face – and it's different from his casual arrogance, his dismissiveness of when he had first met you. When he turns to face you, Yu Ji slips away from his expression, and there's something familiar that supplants it.

You have seen how his attention sharpens his loose-limbed disdain into a knife. Now, it catches the light.

If Yan was any other person, you'd think he'd heed your suggestion. If he was smart, he'd say something reasonable. But you watch him choose his words, the line of his jaw tightening.

If his devotion was cloying, then his displeasure is like wine, poisonous and heady. A person could drink him in, dizzy from the astonishment of their own anger. You've observed how he draws people in with taunting, and you begin to understand a kind of underlying principle of his control.

If he could not be liked, then he would be hated completely.

Your mere annoyance is not enough. He wants something much more terrible from you. He tests your name, fingers curled into fists, and you anticipate something spiteful.

Instead, he wants to know you.

It's almost a surprise.

He isn't mocking. It's serious. You study him, amused.

When you first met him, you didn't expect him to know you, except for perhaps a feigned courtesy. But he hadn't bothered even with that, contemptuous until you proved useful against Cao, careless until this moment.

Now there's an undertone of curiosity to his demand. Terribly arrogant, nearly absurd.

Laughing lightly, you turn away from him and meander towards the door, stopping at the wooden screen briefly, stopping to stare at the mask on the wall.

Swaths of District Nine had been rebuilt in the aftermath of war by your great-grandfather. There are companies that you have never even set foot in that pay a chain of dividends to your family, the wealth locked in institutional structures that provide income without needing to do much at all.

Your initial education was in the foundation of your family, known to be land developers, built from the collapse of the First Rebellion. But this name was barely on anything, the presence strangely scarce, buried beneath more than ninety years of crafted levels of ownership. Your grandfather preferred to be discrete. He had held the belief that control was invisible, and your family benefited from the anonymity. You understood this attitude and acquired it before you were old enough to even enter society, the first tenets of life you'd learned, passed between blood and gravestones.

You spent four years spreading speculation as a ghost in the streets, but everyone who would betray you in the Forum is dead. And the other you – he was supposed to be mourning. No one had seen much of Ulysses Xie since he was a child. But who were they to question grief?

Now eighteen, you are treated with delicate, meticulous care. You are both exiled and allowed. Your uncle wants to bring you back into the fold, but your aunt wants you to transfer the line of succession of the estate to someone else. They rinsed you of rumours in your absence, but they never asked what was true. They understood what they needed; they didn't want something as unimportant as confirmation.

Even Daming – what more did he know except that you were the one paying him?

It's not a mistake, your facelessness.

You glance at Yan from across the room. There's an imperceptible easing of your chest, a polite smile that you wear faintly, idly, but your tone is dismissive when you speak, dipping into boredom.

"I said something measurable."

His request feels strikingly artless. The silence rings in the room, and this is the tempo of every interaction, vindictive and then suffering stillness. Your expression is opaque, eyes catching the skirt on the chair, flickering back to his face.

"I'm a fan," you answer with a half-shrug and a swift, sly smile that disappears as you continue. "I wanted to see the famous Yan Li up close, and you were so kind to invite me backstage again. What an honour."

It sounds mocking despite the evenness of your voice. It's a lie, but you say it with the cadence of something true. This is the story, there's nothing else. That is what he knows about you.

"We'll meet in two weeks." Yan burns with the intensity of a flame, and you ignore it pointedly, now hand on the door. "Because you enjoyed our conversation enough to invite me to see you again. Or perhaps you wanted something –" Your eyes meet his, cool and steady as you open the door, speaking over your shoulder. You think of the favour he asked for, the triumphant expression on his face, your insinuation.

A clear, painful streak of spite splits through you briefly.

It's gone in an instant, you let the sentence die. You only ask him "Orchids again?"