Kirin Restaurant is one of those places that looks expensive from the outside and confirms it on the inside. Jian is already there, seated at a round table with a man who can only be his father. Same cheekbones, same posture, same way of holding himself like he's occupying space that has been carefully measured and found worthy.
"Alex," Jian says. "This is my father, Mr. Li."
Mr. Li stands to shake Alex's hand. His grip is firm, assessive, the kind of handshake that tells you everything about who you're dealing with. Alex feels suddenly very aware of his thrift-store button-down, his cheap haircut, his entire history of being the son of a single immigrant mother who dated a string of shitbags.
"Sit," the Mr. Li says, and it's not a suggestion.
The brunch is... boring. That's the only word for it. Jians father asks Alex about his studies, his background, his plans after graduation. He asks about Alex's mother, and Alex finds himself lying, saying she's doing well, saying she has a stable job, saying everything is fine. Mr. Li nods like he knows it's all bullshit but appreciates the effort.
Jian barely speaks. He eats his congee with mechanical precision, answers when directly addressed, otherwise observes. It's like watching a different person, someone who has learned to be invisible in his father's presence.