The Broken Window
Rain glazed the streets of Hong Kong until every light outside Tang Mi'an's apartment looked doubled, one version burning above the pavement and another trembling beneath it.
Mi'an dropped the last set of exhibition plans onto her coffee table and rubbed both eyes with the heels of her hands. She had been home for less than an hour. Lumarow was racing toward the opening of a new hotel exhibition, which meant no one at the studio had gone home on time all week.
She should have showered.
She should have eaten something that had not come from a vending machine.
Instead, she had opened her laptop again.
A metallic sound came from the kitchen door.
Mi'an went still.
Not wind.
Not the air conditioning.
Not a neighbor.
She reached for her phone.
The sound came again, sharper this time. The back door handle moved.
Her fingers turned cold.
She backed away and made the first call that came to mind.
He answered before the second ring.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Jing.” Her voice came out barely above a breath. “Someone is outside my door.”
The silence on the other end lasted less than a second.
“Go to your bedroom. Lock the door. Do not hang up.”
“I already called the police.”
“Good. Now do what I said.”
A violent impact struck the outer door.
Mi'an flinched so hard the phone nearly slipped from her hand.
She ran to the bedroom, locked both bolts, dragged a chair under the handle, then crouched beside the bed.
“I'm inside.”
“Where in the room?”
“Beside the bed.”
“Move somewhere they cannot see from the doorway.”
She did it immediately.
That was the strangest part.
Tang Mi'an did not take orders well.
Especially not from Jing Xiaohan.
For the two years since her father died, Xiaohan had existed at the edge of her life like a dark line she was not supposed to cross. He arranged lawyers when they were needed, checked the shares her father had left behind, and made sure a security team was available if she ever asked for one. He attended a handful of family meals and sat at the head of a table with such quiet authority that people measured their sentences before speaking to him.
He had never tried to run her daily life.
Tonight, his voice was the only thing keeping her breathing evenly.
Glass shattered in the living room.
Mi'an jerked backward. Her elbow struck the bedside lamp. It fell, knocking a framed photograph from the table. The frame broke against the floor, and a shard sliced across her palm when she tried to catch it.
She bit down on a cry.
“Mi'an.”
“I'm here.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Just my hand. A little glass.”
His voice dropped.
“Do not move. I'm coming up.”
She blinked.
Coming up?
Before she could ask what he meant, there was a burst of noise outside. A shout. A heavy collision. Something struck the wall.
Then silence.
Three knocks sounded against her bedroom door.
“Mi'an. It's me.”
Her knees almost gave out.
She pulled the chair away. Her bleeding hand shook so badly she fumbled the lock twice before the door opened.
Jing Xiaohan stood on the other side in a dark shirt with the sleeves buttoned at his wrists. He was tall enough to fill the doorway, his expression unreadable until his eyes swept over her and stopped on her hand.
“Come here.”
She went to him before she thought about whether she wanted to.
He took her wrist carefully and turned her palm toward the light. His jaw tightened at the thin line of blood.
Then he removed his suit jacket from one arm and put it around her shoulders.
Only then did Mi'an look past him.
Luo Zhekun stood near the ruined entrance. Chen Zhaoyi was speaking to two police officers farther down the hall.
Zhaoyi looked over. “Two men got inside, Mr. Jing. One ran for the emergency stairs. We detained the other. He isn't saying who sent him.”
Xiaohan did not turn around.
“Make sure the police log him first. Then deal with everything else.”
The phrase *everything else* made one of the officers glance at the other.
Neither asked what Xiaohan meant.
He looked back at Mi'an.
“Pack a bag.”
She was still trying to catch up. “Where am I going?”
“My house.”
“I can stay here.”
“No.”
“I have work tomorrow.”
“I know.”
Mi'an stared at him. “You know?”
“Lumarow has a presentation at ten. Wei will arrange a car.”
For one disorienting moment, the attempted break in became secondary to the fact that Jing Xiaohan knew her work schedule.
She drew a breath.
“Is it really that dangerous?”
“Dangerous enough that you are coming with me tonight.”
His tone did not rise. It did not need to.
She looked at the broken frame on the floor, the glass in the living room, the police at the entrance.
For once, she did not argue.
“Fine. Give me ten minutes.”
“Five.”
“Mr. Jing.”
“Seven.”
She stared at him, then an incredulous laugh escaped before she could stop it. “Are you bargaining with someone whose apartment was just broken into?”
“If you can still argue with me, you're functioning.”
The absurd answer eased something tight inside her chest.
Seven minutes later, Mi'an left her apartment with one small bag.
She did not know that it would be the last night her life felt entirely her own and entirely solitary at the same time.
In Xiaohan's car, she held the bag on her lap while rain crawled down the windows in silver trails.
Only after they turned onto the main road did she notice there were two other black vehicles following them.
The police car was already gone from sight.
“What happens to the man they caught?” she asked.
“The police question him first.”
“And after that?”
Xiaohan turned his head slightly. “You do not need to think about that tonight.”
She frowned. “Do you say that often?”
“Say what?”
“Cut a story in half and tell me I don't need the rest.”
He was quiet for a beat.
“Tonight, you have the right to ask. I simply do not have every answer yet.”
That was not everything she wanted, but it was better than being dismissed.
At a red light, Mi'an looked down at the white bandage someone had wrapped around her palm.
“How did you get there so fast?”
“I was in a meeting less than fifteen minutes away.”
“What if you'd been farther?”
“Zhekun and the closest team would have gone in first.”
Her head lifted.
“You had people near me already?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since your father died.”
For several seconds, Mi'an could only look at him.
She had assumed his promise to her father meant paperwork, lawyers, phone calls she rarely saw, perhaps a check in from a distance.
She had never imagined an invisible security net had existed around her life for two years.
“I can't decide whether to thank you or be angry.”
“Decide tomorrow.”
A small laugh slipped out.
It was the first one since the window broke.
Xiaohan turned his face toward the rain darkened city again, but some of the tension left his shoulders.
For the first time since he had answered her call, he could finally breathe all the way in.
