Chapter 2: Storm at Mumu Inn
In May, the western town was swallowed by wind and snow.
By nightfall, the world outside was a blanket of white. Visibility was no more than eight meters. At Mumu Inn, the landlady prepared to bolt the door.
The town was remote; guests were rare, and after the holiday rush, business had slowed to nothing. She pulled her scarf higher over her mouth, found the door bolt, and was about to close up when the wind forced the door wide open. Snow rushed in, blinding her.
A tall man stood there. He wore a long black windbreaker, a hat pulled low, goggles that hid his eyes, and carried a massive black box while another rested on his back.
It was Cheng Jia.
“Wait, let me close the door,” the landlady called, but before she finished, another man rushed in through the storm. He too was dressed in black, dragging a heavy suitcase, his build almost identical to Cheng Jia’s.
The landlady peered out into the snow, scanning the street. Only after confirming no one else lingered did she shut the door.
The inn grew quiet. Two strangers stood at the counter. She brushed snow and dust off their ID cards with her feather duster, then said briskly, “We only have standard rooms. 202 and 203.”
Cheng Jia noticed something odd. The proprietress had slid her ID card toward the other guest. His card read: Ji Yun, male.
Cheng Jia: “…”
Dragging her suitcase upstairs, Cheng Jia stole a glance at Ji Yun. He was short, dark-skinned, and hid behind sunglasses. His delicate features could have been mistaken for a woman’s at first sight.
Her room was 202. Once inside, she stripped off her hat, mask, and goggles, lit a cigarette, and exhaled slowly. Setting down her smaller suitcase, she unzipped it to reveal two cameras and several lenses.
Pulling open the curtains, she studied the storm. Then she selected her gear and headed back out.
The inn was a small, square wooden structure with a courtyard in the middle. The storm still raged. Cigarette stub discarded, Cheng Jia climbed the stairs to the roof.
Snow whirled all around her. Standing there felt like being at the center of the world. She fought against the wind to set up her tripod and captured the blizzard: the scattered wooden houses, the fluttering wind-horse flags, and the distant snow peaks.
After ten minutes, she shifted to street shots, snapping photos of the few pedestrians braving the storm. By the time she packed up, snow clung to her shoulders and hair.
On the way back down, a firm hand gripped her shoulder. Cheng Jia shook it off with irritation and spun around. The man behind her wore a windproof mask, but his eyes—sharp as an eagle’s—cut through his glasses.
“Sorry,” he muttered, “wrong person.”
Cheng Jia frowned and returned to her room.
There, she exported her photos. Hundreds filled the screen, but not a single one satisfied her. Smoking as she worked, her movements grew harsher—keys clacking, smoke curling in the dim light. Finally, she snapped her laptop shut, cursing under her breath.
A photographer unable to shoot was like a writer with no words, or a master whose skills had been stripped away. Useless.
She smoked until the anger bled out of her, showered, and collapsed into bed by nine. Distrustful of the inn’s sheets, she wrapped herself in a towel. Sleep came quickly.
A thunderclap ripped her awake.
The door burst open, and shadows poured into the room. Flashlights cut through the dark as several tall figures rushed toward her.
Robbery? Kidnapping? Murder?
Before Cheng Jia could react, a powerful hand grabbed her, yanking her from the bed with brutal force. She hit the mattress again with a painful thud as the quilt was thrown over her head.
“Don’t move!” a harsh voice barked.
Pinned, Cheng Jia forced herself to stay calm. She counted footsteps—at least four intruders. Screaming now would only get her killed.
The light clicked on. They tore through her room, flipping furniture and scattering her belongings.
Then came the words that froze her blood.
“Seventh Brother, this is the box. Inside is—”
“Open it.” The voice was low, steady, commanding.
At once, Cheng Jia understood. They were after someone else.
Still pinned, she sneered under the quilt: “Let go.”
The room fell silent. To her surprise, the man hesitated—then released her.
Cheng Jia sat up, towel tight around her body. Four armed men stood before her. One was short and solid, another tall and thin, but her eyes were drawn to the man behind them all—broad-shouldered, towering, his presence filling the room even without words.
He was Seventh Brother.
Dark eyes beneath thick brows. Bronze skin. A wild, unforgettable face.
“Miss,” he said, his voice deep and controlled, “answer a few questions.”
“Assistance, or interrogation?” Cheng Jia asked coolly, cigarette between her fingers.
“Assistance.”
“Then ask.”
What followed was a dangerous game of questions and lies, sharp words exchanged under the weak glow of the lamp. Cheng Jia never flinched, even when suspicion cut at her like a blade.
But when his gaze held hers—heavy, unyielding—something shifted.
And though his men demanded to search again, to push harder, Seventh Brother silenced them with a single word: “Go.”
The tension broke, but not before one last moment—when his eyes lingered, dark and unreadable, on Cheng Jia.
In the silence that followed, a young Tibetan boy flushed red, stammering out his name in broken Chinese:
“My name… is Nima.”
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