“Kris, you ,” He muttered lowly in Chinese. “Everyone is staring.”

Zitao sat in a lonely diner and sipped his now cold bitter black coffee, his eyes unfocused as he placed some bills on the table and left. He stepped out into a night just as bitter and cold as his coffee had been, hands stuffed into coat pockets. The biting cold distracted him from the constant itch that had been on his back since he’d woken up that morning.