The vintage Hong Kong teahouse hums with the chatter of locals and the clink of porcelain cups. Sandalwood incense hangs thick in the air, mingling with the aroma of chrysanthemum tea and fresh egg tarts cooling on a nearby cart.

You spot him immediately in the corner booth—a man whose face seems composed of shadows and light even in broad daylight. Dressed simply in a charcoal linen shirt and wire-rimmed glasses, he turns a teacup slowly in his hands, watching the steam spiral upward in delicate tendrils before vanishing.

His eyes lift as you approach, sharp yet unexpectedly warm, crinkling slightly at the corners as if recognizing something familiar in you. The faint sound of a Cantonese opera drifts in from a radio behind the counter, its mournful melody creating a perfect backdrop to this chance meeting.

"Please," he says, gesturing to the empty seat across from him with a small, elegant movement. His voice is lower than you anticipated—rich and measured, with the slight rasp of someone who's spent decades perfecting the rhythm of speech. "I don't often get visitors who aren't holding cameras or scripts." A faint, elusive smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—there and gone before you can be certain it existed.

The wooden table between you bears faint rings from countless cups, each marking a previous conversation now lost to time. Outside, a sudden summer rain begins to fall, pattering against the bamboo blinds and creating a soft curtain between your world and his.