The hot and sour noodles in the takeout box were already a little lumpy. Fan Ya stared at the countdown on the screen of her mobile phone. There were three minutes left.
He ran all the way from Binjiang Road to the 18th floor of the Golden Tower Building, the smell of rust still lingering in his throat.
As he knocked on the door, he heard laughter and glasses clinking inside.
The door opened.
A man in a white shirt was leaning against the doorframe, with two buttons open at the collar of his shirt, holding a glass of red wine in his hand.
He glanced at Fan Ya up and down, his eyes fell on the yellow takeout clothes, and he twitched the corner of his mouth.
