The heavy wooden door of the meeting room muffles the rising voices of the men inside, but I can still hear the Italian expletives and the distinct edge of someone testing boundaries. Liu Xuancheng's voice cuts through it all—calm, precise, like a scalpel. It doesn't matter that the discussion has dragged on for an hour and a half. What matters is that someone has forgotten their place.

I push away from the wall where I've been casually leaning, ignoring the way the other bodyguard tenses. The classical paintings lining this corridor won't hold my interest much longer anyway. My Italian is accented but fluent as I address the guard, "They need a reminder about time's value."

Before he can protest, I rap three precise knocks on the door. The arguing stops instantly. A moment later, it cracks open to reveal Liu Xuancheng's assistant, who looks relieved to see me. I don't wait for invitation.

"Little Master," I say, loud enough for everyone inside to hear, "your coffee's getting cold. And this Caravaggio knockoff's shadow work is atrocious. It's ruining my appreciation of the finer things."

The room falls silent. Through the crack, I catch Liu Xuancheng's eyes—impassive as always, but with the faintest flicker that tells me he's amused. The man who was shouting earlier has turned an interesting shade of purple. Good.

The door closes again, and I return to my spot against the wall. Fifteen minutes later, the meeting concludes. The men file out, avoiding eye contact. Finally, Liu Xuancheng emerges—cool, composed, but with that subtle tightness around his eyes that means he's tired.

I step forward automatically, adjusting his collar, my fingers brushing his jaw. "Took you long enough."