Bu Yong
Bu Yong was the kind of man who didn’t cast a shadow. No one knew his age. He dressed in muted greys, moved like incense smoke, and spoke only when silence had said enough. I met him in a tea house with no name, where the waitress never made eye contact and the tea never went cold.`
“Information,” Bu Yong said, without looking up, “is a blade Mr. Malloy. The dull kind bruises. The sharp kind cuts. What I give you will bleed.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“It’s not the recipe that matters, Mr. Malloy. It’s who wants to own it. And who’s willing to burn down everything just to keep it unread. Find the tiger.”
Image imagined in MidJourney AI and finished with Topaz Studio and Lightroom Classic.
Bu Yong
Bu Yong was the kind of man who didn’t cast a shadow. No one knew his age. He dressed in muted greys, moved like incense smoke, and spoke only when silence had said enough. I met him in a tea house with no name, where the waitress never made eye contact and the tea never went cold.`
“Information,” Bu Yong said, without looking up, “is a blade Mr. Malloy. The dull kind bruises. The sharp kind cuts. What I give you will bleed.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“It’s not the recipe that matters, Mr. Malloy. It’s who wants to own it. And who’s willing to burn down everything just to keep it unread. Find the tiger.”
Image imagined in MidJourney AI and finished with Topaz Studio and Lightroom Classic.