The challenge hung in the air: heavy, dangerous. Because this wasn't restaurant Mandarin anymore; this wasn't conversation. This was business: contracts, legal language, investment terminology—the kind of language designed to confuse people.
Charles was betting on something specific: he believed Maya's knowledge had limits; he believed he had finally found them.
The room waited. Maya slowly opened the folder. The pages rustled softly beneath her fingertips. She scanned the first page, then the second, then the third. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Outside, rain streaked down the windows; inside, 60 people watched a waitress read a multi-million dollar investment document. The image itself felt surreal.
Charles crossed his arms: confident again, certain again. This was his arena, his world, his language, his rules. At least that's what he thought.
Maya continued reading: line after line, clause after clause. The longer she read, the more something changed in her expression: not confusion, not fear—focus, deep focus, the kind that made everything else disappear.
Suddenly, she wasn't in Lakeshore Terrace anymore. She was 12 years old again, sitting inside Mrs. Chen's laundromat. The hum of washing machines filled the room; steam drifted from dryers; customers came and went. And in the corner, Mrs. Chen sat beside her with an old Chinese newspaper, patiently teaching her: character by character, word by word, hour after hour.
Most afternoons, Maya completed homework there while her mother worked. Mrs. Chen had no children of her own; eventually, she treated Maya like family. She taught her language, stories, history, patience. When Maya turned 16, Mrs. Chen began helping her read more difficult texts: government forms, business notices, medical documents—anything she could find.
"You never know what knowledge becomes useful later," Mrs. Chen always said.
At the time, Maya thought she was talking about school; now she realized Mrs. Chen had been preparing her for life.
Back in the restaurant, Maya reached the middle of the document. Then she stopped.
The room tightened. Charles smiled. There it is. He could almost see the thought forming: the limit, the mistake, the failure.
Maya read the paragraph again—slower, more carefully. Then she turned another page.
Mr. Liang watched closely. Something had caught her attention; he could tell. And suddenly, he was no longer curious whether she could read the document—he was curious about what she had found.
Maya continued reading. A minute passed, then another. The restaurant remained frozen.
Finally, she looked up.
Charles leaned forward, ready, hungry for a mistake. "Well?"
Maya closed the folder slowly, carefully. Then she asked a question—a very simple question, one that instantly changed the mood:
"Who translated the English version?"
Charles blinked. "What?"
"The English version." She looked directly at him. "Who translated it?"