He was there.
He crossed the rotunda in three strides. He was so close she could smell him—rain, cheap cello rosin, and something else, something like green tea and anger.
Not a real storm—though the rain was lashing Taipei like a punishment—but the storm of consequences. Shancai’s father called, his voice thin and shattered. The health inspector had shown up at the stall. A surprise inspection. They’d found violations that didn’t exist. The stall was shut down. Indefinitely.
“Why would I?” she shot back. “No one would believe me. They think you’re carved from ice and money.”