“Do you have a problem, Chengmei?” Jin Guangyao asked.
Xue Yang slammed down his stirring rod. The gritty substance on it sprayed across the cluttered bench. “Yes, I have a problem!” he snapped. “There’s no fucking point following the formula if I don’t have pure enough ingredients. What the hell is this cinnabar cut with? Your father’s dead, no one’s checking your account book any more!”
Jin Guangyao only gave a faint smile, leaning back on the bier that held the body of Xiao Xingchen. “True, my father is dead,” he said. “That means I don’t have to support your work here; it’s a personal favour. Think on that, perhaps.”
