Peng Ye stepped down from the wooden building and took the bench at Cheng Jia’s table. He sat with the easy composure of someone who had spent too many nights watching other people fumble for answers.
Cheng Jia studied him a long moment before commenting, “It's not a gentleman's doing.”
He let the words hang, measured. “You are very vigilant.”
“So-so.” She moved with practised nonchalance—lifted the copper kettle, poured tea into a porcelain cup, set the chopsticks, stirred twice as if washing them clean of some private thought.
Peng Ye’s gaze drifted to the cup. “What?”
“Don't waste water.” he said.
“I forgot that this is the northwest.”
“It's the same everywhere.”
His voice was low and resonant, the kind that pulls attention like a double bass. She had a sudden, absurd thought — that when a man made the sound you make when you love, it must be incomparable.
Cheng Jia smiled, quirking an eyebrow, and nudged the cup toward him. “Don't waste it.”
Peng Ye ignored the tease. He went straight to the point. “Regarding yesterday's incident, I asked you if you had ...... at that time.”
Cheng Jia cut him off with a casual tilt. “Are you familiar with this place?”
He frowned. “Yes.”
She shook her head, picking the banter up. “What's delicious in this store, recommend it.”
“It depends on which flavor you like,” he answered without expression.
“Heavy.” She pressed. “What is distinctive and recommended.”
“All have characteristics.” he replied.
“Oh.” She said it coldly.
Peng Ye leaned in, voice dark and steady. “You said you didn't see any suspicious people in the inn during the day, but ......”
“'All have characteristics', 'whatever'......” Cheng Jia mocked lightly. “What do the suspicious people you see look like? Whatever it is.”
Peng Ye held her gaze—quiet, weighty. He closed his mouth as if to keep from rising to her bait, then, in a flat list, named things she could have expected: “tsampo, butter tea, blood sausage, milk residue, gnocchi, cheese.”
“You memorize the menu?” Cheng Jia picked up the laminated paper — greasy at the edges, the local menu laid out in plain type.
“Local shops make things that locals eat, and for people outside, of course, they are all specialties.” he said.
“Also right...... Native...... Where are you from?”
Before he could answer she struck back. “You should be an outsider. Each of your teams has a different accent. Where is your home?”
“Xi'an.” he said.
She blinked. Northwest men — interesting.
“You speak Mandarin very well.” Seeing his silence, Cheng Jia asked, “Have you had breakfast?”
Peng Ye paused, then, briefly: “Eat.”
“That's not eaten, I'll treat you.”
“I have a request for you, I invite you.” he said.
Cheng Jia couldn't tell if this was a negotiation or a dismissal. She glanced at the likely size of the bill. “...... The amount of food should be quite large...... Madame! …… One tsampa, one pot of butter tea, two gnocchi, one cheese, one ......”
“Enough.” he cut across.
“...... Cheesecake, a plate of roast lamb, and a plate of steamed beef tongue.” she continued, rattling off the order.
“Can you eat beef tongue?” the proprietress asked.
“Yes.” Cheng Jia said.
“Okay, serve soon.” the woman replied.
Peng Ye narrowed his eyes and the air between them tightened again.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Waste.” he answered, blunt and brief, as though another word might break something.
In Cheng Jia’s experience, men who said “waste” were often stingy—meticulous, pretentious. Peng Ye gave a different impression: a heavy bass of a man, restrained and confident, frowning in the way of someone who had lived through too much.
“I want to try the local characteristics, otherwise I will call your brothers.” Cheng Jia said, half-playful.
He had no intention of summoning anyone. His interest was not the food; it was focus, a single, taut thread.
“Why did you lie yesterday......” he asked.
“Let me take a picture of you......” Cheng Jia said at the same time.
Their words overlapped. Peng Ye looked away at the click of a camera in her hand; she had raised it without fuss. For a long moment he did not turn back. Cheng Jia, who rarely indulged herself, let the camera rest a moment as she reviewed the image on the screen.
On it, his neck was taut, the curve from nape to collarbone plain and striking against the log-colored walls of the teahouse and the flicker of colorful robes outside. She traced the line on the screen with a fingertip and felt something like a small, private ache of appreciation.
“Don't shoot anymore, I never force others to do it.” Cheng Jia said, setting the camera down.
Peng Ye’s look warned her, and she took it: if he’d wanted to leave he could have left then. She watched him mask a flicker of impatience with a small, dangerous calm—he was a man whose cold eyes had a way of undoing pretense.
She sipped her tea, then provoked, softly: “You are a man who can't let go.”
He remained unmoved; his tone returned to the matter at hand. “You saw a suspicious person yesterday.”
Cheng Jia gave a half-smile, rhetorical. “Do you think I look like a good and well-behaved citizen?”
“Not like.” Peng Ye replied. “But it is the minimum obligation to provide clues to help solve the case.”
“When you go out, protecting yourself is the bare minimum. I will give you clues, you go to someone, and when you turn back, that person will retaliate against me. But I'm not ready to dedicate myself here to the cause of justice.”
Peng Ye fell quiet for two beats, then asked, “Are you traveling alone?”
Cheng Jia snorted. “Do you think I'm with them, or do you think I'm a prostitute like that short man? Woman?”
Butter tea arrived then, thick steam and the smell of yak butter. Peng Ye said nothing to smooth the roughness; he offered no apology.
A small exhale escaped Cheng Jia. She toyed with the camera again, easing back into the world of images. After a moment, Peng Ye asked, “What's your name?”
She barely glanced up. “What do you think I should be called?”
“Zhang Huaihua.” he said.
The name nearly made her cough on the scalding tea. She peered at him, half convinced he was mocking. But his face held no irony—only seriousness. The man was elusive and oddly intriguing.
She might have passed the time with conversation, but he had a single direction. “You still haven't changed your mind now?”
“I saw a man in the inn yesterday, but I didn't remember it at all.” she replied.
“You're lying again.”
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “How can you see it?”
“You are a photographer, and it is your habit to observe details.”
A slow smile unfolded on her face. “You are wrong again, I am here to travel.”
Peng Ye studied her briefly. “That's my wrong judgment.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “Where to go next?”
“Lhasa, Zhangmu, Nepal.”
“Hmm.” He took chopsticks, ate in a few efficient movements, and, when he was done, rose to check out.
Cheng Jia watched him drink his glass of water and leave. He paused at the door, met her gaze, and gave a small nod—goodbye in a soldier's code.
She hurried after him; the courtyard was crowded and he had vanished into the flow. She turned corners, searched alleys, and finally kicked the base of a wall in frustration. “Fuck!” she spat to the empty air.
**
Peng Ye had not gone far before his phone buzzed. The voice on the other end was soft, like water dripping in a quiet room: “Brother Ye, don't you come to see me if you want to leave?”
He halted. “Do you know I'm here?”
“Yes, or listen to what others say, like words?”
“I'm a little busy this time.”
“Don't go through the door, hum.” The other side pouted through the line.
A faint smile crossed his face. “Oh, are you still angry?”
“I can't get angry. When are you leaving?”
“Two hours later.”
“That...... Come and see me.”
His phone vibrated again—another call. “Seventh brother, how is it? Ask her separately if she has any clues?”
“No.”
“Just hand it over to the police and take her to the bureau for interrogation.”
Peng Ye’s reply was two words: terse, reserved, final.
**
Cheng Jia drifted, restless. The morning had become warmer; irritation rose in her like static. Near ten, she returned to the inn and immediately noticed the subtle wrongness of a room someone had been in.
Everything looked orderly—sheets, quilt, suitcase, camera—but small details were wrong: a zipper facing the left when it should be right, clothes folded tight without the soft edges she left, the camera bag’s drawstring knot tied with an unfamiliar knot.
She stood a long time with her face clouded, lit a cigarette and packed with the slow, methodical hands of someone who trusted their own rituals. Downstairs she asked the proprietress, “How is business today? Any guests?”
The woman sighed. “It's not good. This place is remote, no tourists, not a single guest today. Besides, if something happened in the store (dead people), bad things would spread thousands of miles, and I am afraid my shop will close in a few days.”
“Bad things spread thousands of miles?” Cheng Jia asked.
The proprietress snorted and turned away. The answer was all the confirmation Cheng Jia needed; she checked out, slung on her pack, and set off.
She vowed, half to herself: the next time she saw that man, she'd slap him a few times.
The thought chased her down the road.
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