"Not a word."
Darius smiled. "Then you're lucky."
Evan laughed. Darius picked up another tray. He didn't explain. There was no need.
Languages had been part of Darius's life for almost as long as he could remember. English had been the language of home. Spanish came next, then French, then Mandarin, Arabic, German, Korean, Portuguese—eight languages in total. He wasn't claiming to be perfect in all of them. He still made mistakes; he still had to search for words sometimes. But he could hold conversations, understand jokes, follow business discussions, recognize regional accents, and, most importantly, he knew how to listen.
That part came from his father. His father had spent years working overseas. When Darius was 13, his father died unexpectedly. After the funeral, Darius found an old notebook among his father's belongings. Inside were handwritten phrases in several languages; his father had apparently collected them while traveling. On the first page was one sentence: If you want to understand people, don't just learn what they say, learn how they mean it.
Darius kept that notebook. He still had it. And whenever someone spoke another language around him, he remembered the same lesson: Listen first, answer second.
At 7:49, Darius returned to table 17. Wei was already watching him.
"You've worked here long?"
"Seven months."
"You like it?"
Darius nodded. "Yes."
Wei lifted his water glass. "You don't seem nervous."
"Should I be?"
One of Wei's companions laughed. Darius realized the question could have sounded disrespectful. He immediately softened his tone. "I mean, no, I'm comfortable here."
Wei studied him, then smiled. "Good."
Darius took the food order. Wei ordered steak. The others followed. Darius repeated everything carefully. Wei nodded. As Darius turned away, Wei said something in Mandarin. Darius heard his own name. He kept walking. Then he heard the next sentence. It was an insult. The table laughed.
Darius reached the kitchen doors. He stopped for a moment. He considered turning around. Instead, he looked down at his father's old lesson in his memory: Listen first, answer second. He walked into the kitchen. The chef called out an order. Darius handed it over, then returned to the dining room.
He didn't change his expression. He didn't tell Thomas. He didn't tell Evan. He simply continued working. That was what made the next hour so uncomfortable.
Darius didn't give Wei the reaction he seemed to be looking for. Every time Wei spoke to him, Darius remained polite. Every time another insult came in Mandarin, Darius heard it. And every time, he chose silence—not because he was afraid, but because he was deciding whether speaking would make the situation better or worse.
At 8:21, a woman at table 12 asked Darius about an ingredient. He explained it; she thanked him. At table 6, a family needed extra napkins; he brought them. At table 9, an elderly man dropped his fork; Darius replaced it before the man had to ask. The restaurant kept moving. Only table 17 remained tense.
Then one of Wei's companions said something in Mandarin. Wei laughed. Darius was standing several feet away. He heard the sentence: it wasn't just an insult this time, it was a suggestion. The man was encouraging Wei to embarrass him.