Chapter 25: The Language of Silence

The noodle shop was a ghost of itself when they slipped through the back door at 3 a.m. Steam had cooled to condensation on the windows, and the smell of chili oil and fried garlic clung to the air like a stubborn memory. Uncle Zhang’s cot in the corner was empty—he was still at the tournament hall, or wherever the surrendered went when they had nothing left to give. Leo didn’t want to think about...