But there was something in the look on Jing’s face. There was a sharpness, a nastiness that I admired. Something relatable. She looked feral, just like me. Well, not just like me. I’m an ugly, awful, nasty-looking hatchet-faced bruiser, and Jing could be Helen of Troy. But even so, her face felt like a mirror, and I saw myself more clearly than I ever had with glass. Her expression was brittle, jagged, practically begging to snap in half and cut someone.
