Chapter Text
Sitting at her desk at Yuehai Pavilion, Keqing downed her ninth cup of green tea that day.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and set her teacup down with an unceremonious clank, collapsing to the back of her chair in a graceless heap. Shame gripped her chest at the thought of the citizens catching their Yuheng in such an unkempt state, but the past month following the Rite of Parting had been… rough, to say the least. With the effective death of the Rex Lapis, Liyue was in a tumultuous state of change—one that kept her pulling multiple all-nighters for the last fortnight, toiling from one break of dawn to the next. Really, inhaling buckets of green tea each day was all Keqing could do to keep herself from collapsing on the spot.
Keqing heaved a sigh. Her bangs felt matted against her forehead. She swept her hand across them, grimacing at the sensation of her own oils smearing onto her skin. Even years after leaving her household, she could still feel the oppressive presence of her governess, her watchful hawk eyes judging her, harping at her every lapse in posture and bearing. The old woman would have had a fit seeing her act so disgustingly oafish now.
The glaring ray of sunlight that settled on her face wasn’t helping either. Keqing squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed at her temple. It wasn’t even noon yet, but the words and numbers she’d been analyzing were starting to blur together. Perhaps maybe… just maybe she could afford a small cat nap…
She shook her head violently. No, she couldn’t tap out now. She was better than this, and Liyue was counting on her more than ever now that their archon was gone.
Keqing opened her eyes, straightening her back and working out the kinks in her spine, willing herself to focus. Glaring down at her papers, Keqing took in all the material again: the reports detailing the infrastructural damages wrought by Osial’s resurrection, the cost to rebuild the Golden House, the amount of labor needed to repair the docks. They needed more stone and mortar. The sturdiest metals imported from Natlan. Then wood, wood, and more wood.
Her vision swam at the overload of information, and not even seconds later it all slurred into nothing more than inky blobs on the pages in front of her. She set down her pen and groaned, crossing her arms on her desk and plopping her face flat on top. Her hair buns wilted along with her.
Keqing hated to admit it, but… was it possible she overestimated her own ability to look after Liyue in Rex Lapis’ place? No… Surely that couldn’t be it, could it…?
Was this what burnout felt like? Was she too harsh on her past assistants?
While it was true that Keqing had spent the majority of her early life buried in textbooks and legal documents, she found that her work dealt more with practical day-to-day issues rather than the tedious grind of bookkeeping. She wasn’t used to being cooped up in the office like this. It was the longest she’d ever spent at Yuehai Pavilion without setting off on an expedition to survey the lands, and she was gravely missing the feel of brisk wind as it brushed through her hair, the gentle glow of sunshine as it warmed her skin.
Maybe she just needed a change of pace. A more efficient way to redirect her energies. Something to get her out of the—
A knock sounded at her door.
Keqing scrambled to a respectable sitting position. A visitor? Right now? When she looked like absolute crap? She pulled out her drawer and grabbed her comb. What was meant to be a few cursory brushes through her hair devolved into hack-and-slash session. She wrestled with the tangles and knots. Whole strands were torn from the roots.
With one final glance at her hand mirror, Keqing smoothed her bangs out. She frowned at what she saw. No amount of fussing would wring the grease out of her hair. She really shouldn’t have skipped her bath last night.
Just as Keqing was about to set down her mirror, something else in her reflection snagged her attention. She snatched the mirror back up, zooming in. Her eyeliner, smudged on the underside of her eyelids, stained a splotchy black. No, no, no —she couldn’t go parading around Yuehai Pavilion looking like she’d gotten punched in the face. She swiftly swept her handkerchief over the area, then reassessed herself in the mirror.
The good: she fixed the splotchiness issue. The bad: the resulting grey uniformity only made the bags under her eyes pop out like glutinous rice balls.
Fantastic. Just what she wanted.
The knock came again, louder. More insistent.
Damn. It would have to do. Not like anyone else at Yuehai Pavilion was faring any better nowadays.
Keqing cleared her throat. It sounded like she was garbling up pebbles, but again, it would have to do. “Come in!” she called out.
The door opened, the hinges creaking in tandem with the churning of her stomach.
As the visitor stepped in, Keqing’s heart seized at the sight of periwinkle blue hair.
Of course—Ganyu. Literally the only person at Yuehai Pavilion aside from Ningguang who could work so arduously for the past month but still end up looking like she’d stepped right out of a calligraphy painting drawn by the finest artists of Liyue. Outfit as elegant and refined as the finest glaze lily in Yujing Terrace, hair as soft and fluffy as the rolling clouds above the skies. Immaculate as ever, just as expected of an adeptus.
Ganyu was looking down at her notes as she strode into the room. “Ah, Lady Keqing, I—”
Whatever she was about to say came to an abrupt halt.
Aaand there it was. Keqing’s worst nightmare: Ganyu, the Liyue Qixing’s devout adeptus secretary, pausing as she took in the sorry, haggard state of the Yuheng, a measly little impious human. A human who was supposed to be said secretary’s superior.
“Yes?” Keqing sighed. She met Ganyu’s shocked gaze head on, as if daring her to comment.
Keqing wasn’t dense. She’d known that Ganyu had her reservations about her, even if she never voiced them out loud. It was only natural: Rex Lapis’ most avid supporter, by sheer irony, serving his harshest critic. At work, Ganyu would always greet her with a cordial smile, completing all of her requests unquestioningly and to utmost perfection—and Keqing appreciated her for it. But to take her politeness at face value was naïve.
However much political savvy Keqing acquired during her years as the Yuheng, Ganyu also possessed that, tenfold. With her modest temperament, it was easy to forget that sometimes. No one could work in politics for thousands of years and not be masterful at hiding whatever strong personal opinions they truly harbored.
Of course, it was just a hunch. She didn’t know the extent of Ganyu’s dislike toward her, or if Ganyu just plain hated her guts. Keqing doubted she’d ever find out. Still, after being so vocal about her disdain of the adepti over the years, the mere thought of giving the only adeptus in Yuehai Pavilion another reason to look down on her was bad enough. The fact that it was actually happening in real time made her want to crawl under the largest rock in Liyue and simply wither to dust.
As Ganyu crossed the room, Keqing sorely wished she had spritzed on some extra silk flower perfume.
“I… have the reports from the Ministry of Civil Affairs, as you requested yesterday,” Ganyu finally said, laying the papers on Keqing’s desk. True to her mild nature, her voice did not betray any judgment. But Keqing had seen it already—her surprise, the crack in her otherwise perfect mask of professionalism.
“Thank you, Ganyu,” Keqing grit out. The smile on her face felt stiff. The concerned look Ganyu was giving her suggested that it was, indeed, stiff.
Keqing couldn’t bear being the subject of mockery under that look any longer. She swiped the papers into her hands and scooted her chair back, spinning around to place the sheets in her cabinets—a subtle maneuver to put distance between them. Or as subtle as she could make it, anyhow.
She made a show of busying herself with the files. She rifled through her folders, reorganized them in no particular order. Stuck a paper here, shifted a binder there. Killed time. Anything to give off the signal that Ganyu’s presence was no longer needed and that her services would be better employed elsewhere.
It was unfortunate, then, that the weight of Ganyu’s eyes never left her back.
Can I help you, Keqing wanted to snap. She didn’t, though, because she wasn’t uncivilized and also because she didn’t want to give Ganyu any more reason to judge her. Please, take a hint. Did she really have to shoo her out verbally?
“Is… there anything else?” Keqing managed to ask, eyes still glued to her cabinets.
“If… if you need assistance with anything, I’m happy to help,” Ganyu offered. Her voice was soft. Delicate. Not at all critical or disapproving. Right back to her perfect mask of professionalism.
Keqing inhaled. It was almost irksome how polite Ganyu could be. In a way, it would have been easier if Ganyu had simply laughed at her face and scorned her for even thinking she could fill the shoes of Rex Lapis. Anything other than that infuriating guise of concern—which actually, now that Keqing thought of it, was kind of condescending in its own way.
“That won’t be necessary,” Keqing said, finally turning toward her. “I’m sure you’re already busy with other tasks, so there’s no need to burden you with mine.” She even offered a smile, loosening her cheeks so that her face would be less stiff this time around. Matching professionalism with professionalism—or as best she could, anyhow, given how the glaring makeup stain on her eyes made her look something like Guoba’s long-lost cousin.
“Ah.” The expression on Ganyu’s face was hard to read. Keqing watched the corner of her mouth twitch, as though she had more to say—or was it because she was on the brink of laughter?—but her lips ultimately settled into another well-rehearsed polite smile. “As you wish, Lady Keqing,” she said. “Please, take care.”
Ganyu bowed and turned to make her leave, heels muted against the carpet. It was only when the doors shut that Keqing finally allowed herself an exhale of relief. Showing weakness and imperfection in front of an adeptus. Not a great start to her day.
Keqing wrinkled her nose. And she really did need to bathe…
The previous day’s blunder replayed in Keqing’s head.
No matter how much Keqing drowned herself in work, her mind would always wander back to the non-incident from that day, to Ganyu’s shocked face, to her concerned offer of assistance. Of course, in all her years of working as the Yuheng, Keqing had seen various shades of distress from Ganyu before: her alarm at junior secretaries butchering simple tasks, her apprehension at the sight of mountain-high stacks of documents to process, her disquiet at Rex Lapis’ passing.
Never once had Keqing ever seen any of that concern so blatantly directed at her , though. True, it was a Yuehai Pavilion secretary’s job to assist the Qixing, but something about looking so pathetic that it would spur on Ganyu, the most overworked employee of Yuehai Pavilion, into offering her assistance was… shameful.
Luckily, today was a new day. The sun was shining, the wind was calm, and best of all: Ningguang was going to be away from Yuehai Pavilion for the afternoon, down at the docks to greet the Crux Fleet captain after a successful voyage. All in all, a fortuitous start to the workday.
That confidence died the moment she opened the double doors to the pavilion.
There in plain view, the first thing to grace her vision was Ganyu, tending to the silkpod flowers at the welcome desk facing the entrance.
“Good morning!” Ganyu greeted. Her eyes were still trained on the flowers as she watered them. She was humming a pleasant tune—an indication that she was comfortable and in good spirits.
Which meant that she likely wasn’t aware it was Keqing who had just entered the premises.
Keqing hesitated, shoulders stiffening. It was fine. She was fine. She had made sure to bathe extra well last night, and she did remember to spritz on some silk perfume before coming in. And perhaps she may have done a bit more with her makeup today. Added some extra wing tip to her eyeliner, thickened her mascara. Applied a dab of blush so she would look more alive, despite not feeling that way at all the past week. Overall, nothing too extravagant. But hopefully noticeable enough to compensate for yesterday.
Keqing steadied her breathing. “Good morning,” she returned.
It was difficult to catch at this angle, but Keqing caught it, the way Ganyu’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. And if that wasn’t proof enough of the good vibes being shot, she’d also abruptly stopped humming. What replaced it was her smile—that same infuriating well-rehearsed smile, completely lacking in warmth. “Ah, Lady Keqing.”
“Hello, Ganyu.”
Ganyu stared at her. Keqing stared back. From the ticking of the wall clock, she was vaguely aware of the seconds passing by, each click of the second hand mocking her for standing still and wasting time.
If there was any satisfaction to be had from this awkward encounter, it was that Ganyu’s smile was slipping, slowly but surely. Her eyes were even straying away, turning slightly upward.
So she wasn’t perfect after all—
“Um, your bun,” Ganyu finally spoke.
Keqing’s eyes widened. Her hands shot up to her hair buns. On the right one, she felt it—her normally crisp and tidy bun, now as limp as a wet noodle.
“Ah,” she croaked. She flushed, making a beeline to her office. “Um, excuse me!”
Okay, maybe not such a fortuitous start to the day.
Two times. Two times in a row she had made a fool of herself in front of Ganyu.
Keqing took the hair-bun incident as a sign to avoid her for the rest of the week. Whenever she would pass Ganyu in the halls of Yuehai Pavilion, Keqing found herself ducking her face to skip any stilted greetings. Whenever she needed assistance with work, Keqing found herself seeking less capable secretaries for help. It was a miracle that the staff was even keeping pace with the volume of work coming in.
On her lunch break, Keqing stopped by Xinyue Kiosk to order golden shrimp balls for takeout. Settling down at a nearby table outside, she popped a fried shrimp ball into her mouth, munching angrily as she mulled over her own behavior. She was being ridiculous! Backsliding into self-consciousness and inefficiency. Prior to the Rite of Parting, Keqing had barely paid any heed to what Ganyu thought of her, and until now she’d always been able to shrug it off so long as Ganyu did what she asked. Just what had gotten into her?
Keqing chomped down on her second shrimp ball, savoring the crispy crunch of the skin. She wondered—had she actually smelled that day? Was she really as greasy as she had remembered? Did Ganyu secretly get a laugh out of it? Would she tell her fellow adepti at Jueyun Karst about the insufferable Yuheng who preached about the importance of human independence but couldn’t even look the part of a functional one?
Was Ganyu even the type to gossip? It was just occurring to Keqing how little she knew about her. On a logical level, Keqing understood that nothing ill would come of Ganyu’s souring perception of her. There wasn’t any precedent for her behavior that would warrant a reason to be concerned about workplace rumors injuring her reputation. Yet even as Keqing tried to rationalize how insignificant it all was, her shame remained lodged in the forefront of her cognizance, persistent and unbudging.
Maybe she just needed to accept that her newfound self-consciousness around Ganyu was going to stay. It was hard, though. Keqing grumbled into her next bite, pulling out the shrimp shell from her teeth. She’d gotten so far in life charging forward with her convictions and blithely ignoring what others thought of her. Why did one adeptus secretary’s opinion matter so much?
Keqing swallowed down her final shrimp ball, then gave herself a rousing slap on either cheek. She was better than this! Lingering on mishaps was a waste of time and energy. A new week meant a chance to turn over a new leaf. A new opportunity to prove herself. Embarrassment was temporary; progress was eternal.
It was time to show Ganyu how capable and competent she really was.
Rejuvenated, Keqing returned Yujing Terrace with her mind as sharp as a razor and her double-conch buns as pointy as a Millelith’s spearhead. She had double- and triple-checked her appearance in the mirrors along the streets of Feiyun Slope. She had every card in her hand to reevaluate and refocus her efforts. She would succeed in her tasks in the upcoming future. Preferably without looking like a buffoon in the process. She had to.
The sight that greeted her as soon as she stepped in Yuehai Pavilion did not bode well for that ambition.
Papers were strewn all over the floor. Assistants were screaming.
“What—what is going on here?” Keqing spluttered.
“Lady Keqing!” an assistant exclaimed. “There’s no need to worry here! We are just adjusting our workflow since Miss Ganyu is gone right now. Just a few mishaps—you know, growing pains and all—but we’ll be fine! Just fine.” He punctuated his attempt at reassurance with a shaky grin, his smile much too wide not to be masking panic. Keqing watched in fascination as a thick bead of sweat rolled down his chin.
The other assistants nodded vigorously alongside him, filing together in a perfect line to block the mess of the entrance hall. Keqing wondered what sort of facial expression she was making now. Maybe she really did need to reevaluate the psychological effects of canning assistants as soon as they committed a blunder.
But wait—
“Ganyu is… gone?” she asked. She felt her stomach drop.
Someone took a long inhale of a pipe. Keqing whipped her head around to find a certain Tianquan standing right beside her.
“That’s right,” Ningguang confirmed. She exhaled the smoke into Keqing’s general direction. Keqing grimaced and craned her neck to avoid the full blast of it. The assistants took that as their cue to scramble.
“Why?”
“Personal reasons.”
Keqing narrowed her eyes. Ningguang was speaking in that cool, detached tone that suggested she knew more than she was letting on. “How long? Where—”
“It’s in poor taste to delve into an employee’s personal matters, Keqing,” Ningguang chided. “Don’t you think our dear secretary deserves some time to herself? Especially lately. Please have faith in our staff.”
“I—” Keqing sighed, feeling the fight drain from her. Her shoulders slumped. “You’re right.”
“And you might do well to find a change of pace as well. Falling asleep in workplace premises is discouraged.”
Keqing pinched the bridge of her nose. Of course Ningguang would somehow know that she had conked out on her desk last week. “I’ve been intending to, actually. Find a change of pace, I mean.”
Ningguang smiled—smirked, really, as she walked past her. “Good,” she said.
This time, Keqing couldn’t avoid the puff of smoke directed at her even if she’d tried.
There were ways to help without being holed up in Yuehai Pavilion.
Running a nation was not just about dealing with the politics of upper management. Civil complaints reflected the state of everyday affairs, and as a member of the Qixing, it was Keqing’s duty to provide the citizens of Liyue an environment where they could thrive and be content. As Ningguang would say, it was essential to ensure that all the cogs in the wheel were working, lest the entire system fall apart. Of course, crude as it was to describe people as cogs, as though they were simply parts of an automaton, she was right.
Regardless, it behooved a nation’s leaders to be acquainted with the hardships of the laboring class, to gain insight on how to improve their working conditions and thus improve the welfare of everyone overall. While such an endeavor wasn’t strictly under her jurisdiction as the Yuheng, Keqing found a deep level of fulfillment in learning the trades of laborers who served as the backbone of the country and working alongside them. Not to mention the thrill she felt when directly prosecuting any employers who took advantage of them.
In the morning following Ganyu’s absence, Keqing pulled out the reports from the Ministry of Civil Affairs, laying them out one by one on her desk. As soon as she did so, she realized the papers were lightly scented with the smell of qingxin—a sign that they had been sitting in Ganyu’s possession for a bit before she’d handed them off to her. The memories of what happened just after swarmed her consciousness. Keqing groaned. Even when Ganyu was away, small reminders of her existence still managed to torment her.
She had to shake it off. She set her attention back to the reports, scanning the files. As she skimmed, one document caught her eye: Third-Round Knockout.
The humble restaurant at Chihu Rock. Keqing hummed in curiosity. She had never been there herself, but she was familiar with its reputation over the past few years. Despite it being what the aristocracy considered a ‘hole-in-the-wall’ restaurant, it was beloved by the locals who frequented Chihu Rock: the fishermen stopping by for a quick bite from the port, the miners retiring after a long day at the Chasm, the families looking to dine together on the weekends outside of their stuffy households. Where it lacked the amenities of finer establishments such as Heyu Tea House, Third-Round Knockout made up for their lack of facilities with an exquisite atmosphere.
Indeed, what set it apart from the other restaurants of similar caliber was its distinguished storyteller, Iron Tongue Tian. Due to his contributions, the establishment was a boon to all of Liyue, allowing even commoners to keep up to speed with the most obscure literature or the latest news in Liyue. And a well-informed public only made for a prosperous nation. Or so Keqing liked to think.
Given all of those reasons, it made it all the more concerning that a complaint about the establishment had reached the desks of the Ministry of Civil Affairs.
Keqing plucked the sheet from her desk and read through the report:
Hi, I’m writing to report questionable practices from the restaurant owner, Degui. I have seen him scolding poor Zhiruo just for trying to do her job properly! I’ve overheard them talking before, and he admits that he purposefully orders his chefs to skimp out on key ingredients in dishes just so he can make a little more money! If the customers notice, he tells his employees to say it’s just supposed to be that way—unbelievable! The blatant duplicity is an insult to Rex Lapis. Please, Third-Round Knockout is one of my favorite restaurants, and I really hate to see it being run to the ground by poor management. If we could get someone to look into this, I would be forever grateful. Thanks in advance.
Keqing rubbed her hands. Oh, this was a good one. Offenses: staff abuse, deceiving customers, shady business practices all around. An excellent opportunity to wield her authority and set things right.
She stood from her chair and wrapped a cloak around her body, pulling the hood over her head. She slapped on a pair of glasses—purely cosmetic in function. Perfect for incognito work.
It was finally time to get that fresh air.
Keqing couldn’t even take two steps out of her office before a voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Surely you do not intend to go out dressed like that.”
She stiffened. “Ningguang,” she grumbled. “Good morning to you, too.”
“While I commend you on your drive to take initiative, and on your prudence to take my advice, your ability to conceal your identity leaves much to be desired,” Ningguang tsked. “I hope you appreciate how much trouble I go through to cover up your tracks sometimes. You’re not exactly slick.”
Keqing scoffed. “First off, your ‘advice’ was my own idea before you even suggested it. Second—” She sighed. Her undercover wardrobe was a bit lacking. “Okay, I will concede that some areas of my covert operations need work. I’ll hear you out.”
“When it comes to matters of your vision for the future and your ability to execute your plans, you are unmatched”—Keqing preened at this—“but as for incognito work, you’re awful”—Keqing deadpanned—“and simply put, you stand out,” Ningguang said.
“No one’s caught met,” Keqing pointed out.
“Yet,” Ningguang emphasized. “Such a lovely shade of purple does not go unnoticed forever, especially when word goes around that a particular Yuheng likes to poke her nose in the affairs of shrewd businessman.” She flicked her fan shut and bopped Keqing on the forehead with the butt of it. “Come, I have something that will suit your needs.”
“Ow—hey!” Keqing grumbled, rubbing at her forehead. The nerve! The patronization! She spun on her heels. “Forget it, I don’t need—”
Ningguang’s posse of secretaries stood waiting at the exit. Keqing halted in her steps, feeling dread crawl down her spine. When did they even get here? Her secretaries—all three of them—maintained an uncomfortably prolonged amount of eye contact with her as they shut the door, the sound of squeaking hinges scraping her eardrums.
Within the next minute, Keqing was herded into the Tianquan’s office space.
It was a far cry from the opulence of the Jade Chamber. Pieces of debris fished from the waters of the harbor were laid neatly onto workshop tables, situated along with shards of Plaustrite tucked into glass containers. On the centerpiece of Ningguang’s notorious wall, there was a ceiling-high draft full of shapes and equations that Keqing recognized as the new blueprint for her airborne palace. The whole room was a compelling reminder that Ningguang was as much of a brilliant engineer as she was a keen businesswoman.
“Tell me, what sort of business has caught your attention this time?”
Keqing had half a mind to tell her off for being nosy, but she begrudgingly admitted Ningguang was doing her a favor. Not only that, but she’d likely need her assistance in amending laws regarding worker and consumer protections. “Third-Round Knockout,” she answered. “I’m planning to expose the owner’s unethical business practices by posing as a waitress. It should go smoothly.”
Ningguang nodded. “It will, once you have a proper disguise to collect evidence.” With a wave of her hand, her secretaries delved into her closet, and in an instant they procured a wig and drab waitress clothing from the depths of her drawers.
Before Keqing knew it, she’d been stripped down and redressed in the waitressing costume. Ningguang pulled her over to a mirror, and Keqing blinked at her own appearance. Between the drab clothing and the black ponytail with the straight-cut bangs, she could barely recognize herself.
Ningguang was right: hiding her purple hair really did do the trick. If only she’d had something like this earlier, when she’d been trying to avoid Ganyu last week.
“This is... not bad at all,” Keqing acquiesced.
“Aren’t you glad I intervened?”
Keqing huffed. She adjusted her frames, eyeing Ningguang through the reflection of the mirror. “The glasses were my idea, though. Just in case you’re thinking of taking credit for them.”
“Yes, they were.” Ningguang smiled. “And I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.”
Ningguang pat her on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
“I appreciate it.” Keqing smiled back. “Thanks.”
When Keqing finally left the premises, she felt paradoxically lighter on her feet and strangely off-kilter. It was nice when she and Ningguang actually worked together for a greater good, but for Ningguang to be so helpful without asking for much in return was... odd. That insufferable woman always had something up her sleeve.
Oh, well. A problem for another time.
Persuading Degui to hire her ended up being surprisingly easy. With Zhiruo being the only other waitress left with enough grit to endure his verbal lashings, the old man had been desperate to take in any new employees. Thankfully, it only took a few words to convince him that she was already a seasoned waitress from catering in other establishments. Being good-looking probably helped, too. He’d put her through a small test then, asking her to memorize the restaurant’s menu within half an hour, but Keqing only needed ten minutes.
And thus, Keqing found herself working her first-ever (and hopefully last) evening shift for Third-Round Knockout. Chihu Rock was teeming with life around this time of day: street food vendors scrambling to cook for whole families, harborside merchants promoting their sales, rowdy sailors out on the streets drinking with their friends.
Her first set of customers arrived just as the sun set below the horizon.
Keqing had run her plan through her head multiple times already. Her objective was simple: add more expensive seasonings to the food, increase portions so that guests could freely share amongst themselves without needing to order extra dishes, pour extra wine onto the boozy desserts. Anything to bait Degui into scolding her for not cutting corners. With that, she could obtain the evidence necessary to prosecute him.
Millelith guards were stationed nearby, prepared to act on her signal. All she needed to do was succeed in flagging Degui’s attention.
Bracing herself for the beginning of her shift, Keqing approached her first customer.
“Hi, welcome to Third-Round Knockout,” Keqing greeted. “My name is Yinhua. I’ll be your waitress for the evening. What can I get for you today?”
“Hi, I’d like to order some of these,” the customer said, pointing to various entrees on the menu.
Keqing nodded, scrawling the items down on her notepad. She didn’t really need to write anything down, but from past experience looking too competent was a cause for suspicion. “Yes, of course, right aw—”
“—dou, it’s my first night off in months. Do you really intend to get me drunk as soon as I’m off work?”
Her pencil stopped mid-word on the paper.
There was no mistaking that voice. Soothing and mellow. Gentle and soft-spoken. Except now it wasn’t so much soft-spoken as it was... jovial. Not a loud or boisterous sort, but the mirth in her voice was new to Keqing. It was uninhibited, free-flowing—so unlike what she was usually used to hearing at Yuehai Pavilion.
Keqing could scarcely believe it. Ganyu?
She turned around to confirm, and surely enough, there she was: the one and only Ganyu, Corporate Secretary of Yuehai Pavilion, walking together with Beidou. The Crux Fleet captain. So this was what she’d been up to on her personal time.
It was... going to be quite the evening.
