600 Thread Count Ch. 08

The bathroom was small, filled with the sharp, medicinal scent of the ginger oil as the steam began to rise.  

Liyang stood by the sink, wetting a cloth and wiping the residue from Marcus's shoulders and chest. Her movements were gentle, almost rhythmic, the "village girl" performing a task of service.  

Yan stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a towel draped over his shoulder. He watched them for a moment, his gaze settling on the back of Marcus's thighs where the skin was still flushed a deep, angry red.  

He reached out and tilted Marcus's chin upward, his thumb grazing the line of his jaw. The touch was light, almost curious.  

"You were so quiet," Yan said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. "Even at the peak, you didn't look away." 

He searched Marcus's eyes for a moment. "Did you enjoy it, Marcus? The way everything else stops existing." 

Marcus felt the heat of Yan's breath against his face. He didn't answer immediately. Liyang moved closer, her hand settling on the small of Marcus's back, her touch providing a grounding counterpoint to Yan's proximity.  

"I have never felt as alive as I did this afternoon." 

The noodle shop was a small island of yellow light in the dark street.  

Liyang chose a stool in the corner, away from the street noise. She reached out and smoothed the collar of Marcus's shirt, her fingers lingering on the fabric.  

"You did well," she whispered.  

The bowls arrived, the broth a rich, clear gold. Liyang took a spoonful and blew on it gently before holding it toward Marcus's lips.  

"Slowly," she cautioned as he took the sip. "It's hot." 

She watched him eat, her chin resting in her palm. She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers, her thumb tracing the line of his knuckles.  

The next morning, Liyang sat at the mahogany desk, working on her phone in her hotel robe.  

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed; his hair was wet. The warmth of the previous days had evaporated, leaving silence in its place.  

"There is a complication," Liyang said. She didn't turn around. Her fingers moved over the trackpad in a rhythmic, searching pattern. "The China Film Administration has updated the digital filing requirements for independent projects. Because we are using high-end equipment in a restricted zone, there is a 'processing fee' to ensure the Dragon Seal--the distribution license--is granted without a full script audit." 

Marcus rubbed a towel over his neck. He felt a cold, grounding realization settle in his chest. The story about the mother's secrets and the disappearing traditions felt suddenly like a faded map of a place that didn't exist.  

"How much?" he asked.  

Liyang turned the chair. The wide, observant eyes were the same, but the "softness" he had noted in the Gaga café was gone.  

"Twenty thousand HKD," she said. "I can list you as the primary Executive Producer. It moves the project from a 'private archive' to a 'registered independent study.' It provides a legal shell for the footage." 

Marcus looked at her. She didn't blink as she waited for his response. He understood now that he hadn't discovered her; he had been acquired by her. The "Executive Producer" title was a way for him to pay for his desires while calling it patronage. He understood that this was a possibility. He didn't think it would be this cold.  

"Executive Producer," Marcus repeated. He picked up his phone. He scanned the code. The ping of the transaction was the loudest sound in the room.  

"It is done," he said.  

Liyang nodded once. She didn't thank him. She closed her phone and stood. She walked to the bed and sat beside him. Her movement was fluid, her touch practiced as she laid a hand on his shoulder.  

"Then we should celebrate the partnership," she said. Her voice had returned to that soft, melodic pitch, but Marcus could hear her other voice in the background.  

They spent the night together in the oversized bed. He held her, feeling the warmth of her skin, fully aware that he was paying for the silence and the sheets and the way she whispered his name. The price was acceptable.  

Liyang was gone before the light fully reached the harbor.  

The woman that Marcus knew as Liyang sat in a cubicle in a tiny 24-hour co-working space in the Chungking Mansions. On the screen, a progress bar crawls across a black terminal window. It is the final packet of the Canada_Accountant directory. There are three files: hotel. mp4, apartment. mp4, and the largest file, firsttime. mp4.  

The woman rewatched a clip sent from Chengdu. The lens, recessed too deeply into the seam of a purse, had created a heavy, dark circular border around the frame. In the grainy center, two women engage in oral sex. The lighting is good, the participants lively. She had replayed this specific loop in the dark of her room until the metal bullet grew warm in her grip.  

She methodically downloaded the other files sent from Xi'an and Guilin and created two new directories. She labels the first Germany_Logistics. The camera is leveled at the height of a bedside lamp. A man moves onto the bed, his pale limbs tangling with a woman whose dark hair obscures her face.  

The second directory she titles USA_Exchange. The Xi'an footage captures a studio apartment. The camera is overhead. A young man lies naked on a bed until an older woman enters the frame.  

The progress bars reach 100%.  

The woman opens a second tab to review the website traffic. Over two thousand people signed in for the "Special Interest" livestream from the previous day. It was most popular in the Middle East and India. Earlier in the morning, she created a teaser reel from the session with Yan. It had already garnered four thousand hits in three hours. She cross-references the hit count against the subscription ledger. She types a figure into a spreadsheet. The website is hosted in Macau. Another note to check if the bandwidth was sufficient.  

She opens her offshore bank portal. She didn't look at the total balance; she looked at the pending transfers. She sees the twenty thousand HKD from Marcus. She transfers money to Chengdu, Xi'an, and Guilin with notes about camera placement and lighting. She deducts 15% from the Chengdu transfer for poor video quality. She sends Yan a bonus.  

The woman pulls up the document featuring the bold, red "Dragon Seal" of the China Film Administration. It looks official. The woman types Marcus's pseudonym into the "Executive Producer" field. She clicks send. In a hotel room across the city, a phone vibrates on a nightstand--his receipt for twenty thousand HKD.  

The woman logs out of the bank and closes the traffic monitors.  

She selects the root folders on her drive. Shift-Delete.  

"Permanently delete 42 files?" 

She clicks Yes.  

The files vanish from her hard drives.  

She catches the early train to Shenzhen, blending in with the businessmen, families, and tourists.