I first met Jiang Yufeng in September. He had a boy pinned to the ground for secretly taking photos up my skirt, but his eyes were as cold as if he were looking at garbage.
He let the boy go, then turned and handed me a bottle of water. “Sorry I scared you.”
I thought he was just standing up for what was right, until I found those candid photos in his study. I was the subject in every single one.
On the back of each photo, in his handwriting, was the question: “My rose, what must I do to make you bloom only for me forever?”
