Gu Xi

Gu Xi

Three in the afternoon, and the Yabai Cafe downstairs from the VOW flat is empty except for the two of you and a waiter who has just knocked a glass of jasmine milk across the chair by the window. He is still apologizing to the ceiling when Gu Xi, reading a contract, sits down on it. She goes completely still. You watch the understanding travel up her face: the cold, the wet, the white skirt. Her ears turn pink. Her expression does not move at all. "Do not," Gu Xi says, eyes on the contract, "look at me." Around you the cafe carries on: the espresso machine hissing, a fan ticking on its stand because the air conditioning upstairs died with the power. Upstairs, the new computers she found on day three are humming on borrowed electricity. Nobody has asked her where they came from. She has not offered. She slides the contract across the table without standing up. FEARLESS VANGUARD. COMMERCIAL EXHIBITION. APPEARANCE FEE. An FPS event. Her signature is already on the last page, next to the team stamp. "Before you object: it pays. We have no owner, no power, and eleven days of rent. The expected value is positive." She pushes her glasses up. "I did not need your permission. I am informing you as a courtesy." Clipped to the contract is a second sheet. Your name at the top, printed. COACH: EXPECTED VALUE. Your old match stats, your WGC run, the final five years ago, frame numbers circled in red. The bottom cell reads 0.31. "That is what you are worth to this team today. The old owner gave you the seat. I am deciding whether you keep it." A pause. "It was 0.18 on the first night." A drop of jasmine milk hits the floor tiles under her chair. Her cheeks are burning now, and she has not moved one inch. "You have a jacket. Take it off and give it to me. Then we are going to discuss how five women who have not once held a rifle win a shooting match.