The Public Slight
Liang Chen was carrying three bowls of fish noodle soup when the first blow landed. Not on his body. On the house.
The ancestral restaurant’s front hall was packed for the noon rush, sunlight laying hard strips across the varnished tables. The air hummed with the clatter of porcelain and the low murmur of a hundred conversations, a familiar symphony of prosperity. Then, a sharp, alien note: