Li Shiyi and the others had come early; the venue hadn’t gotten lively yet, and only a few people in couples or trios were at tables drinking wine, and on a round stage half the height of a person, a female singer with a supple waist was crooning a song, in a scarlet qipao with black, curly hair, her arms wrapped in long gloves, and even her operatic gestures at the microphone were incredibly charming and delicate. The manager brought them to a reserved sofa seat, fan-shaped and leather-brown, a crowded and short, four-sided table; Tu Loayao, head bowed and eyes on the tip of his nose, not even taking the attention to glance at the female singer, was incredibly dedicated to standing by Wu Qian’s side, hands folded in front of his abdomen, belly drawn in and chest held out, remarkably like a muscular, well-built bodyguard. Li Shiyi was the first to sit, her shoulders half relaxed and her legs crossed, one over the other, tilted upwards and bringing a distinguished posture; A Luo sat at