"Qin Guolan, you remember me," I said, stepping into the foyer, boots on marble.
"Do I?" Qin Guolan looked up from his drinks table like he could buy a memory back with a cheque. He grinned first, then the grin narrowed into a question.
"I was here once," I said. "For music. For money. Tonight I'm here for something else."
"You've come a long way for a song," he said. "You should announce yourself properly. The house likes ceremony."
"Keep your ceremony," I said. "Let me see the basement key."
He waved a hand. "You don't get to order me around. Who sent you? A rival label? A fan with bad manners?"
"Neither," I said. "I came alone."
Two guards moved to block the back hall. I let them step forward.
"Stop," Qin said. "They're with me."
"Then tell them to stand down and hand me the key," I said. My voice was flat. No plea. No show.
Qin's palms flexed. "You can't force me. My name—"
"—means nothing to me," I interrupted. "Give the key."
He smiled too wide. "You're rude."
"You're old," I said.
The room tensed like a held note. Qin laughed to cover it. "We can always call the police. Or a private team."
"Call if you like." I took a slow step toward him.
"Don't come any further!" one guard barked.
I took another step. The guards' fingers twitched toward holsters. One of them cleared his
