009 Critical Remarks Provoke Irritation

Back at the hotel, my wrist was marked with a deep red imprint from the heavy object, and my whole body felt sticky and uncomfortable. I tossed my things into the corner and collapsed onto the bed in a star shape.

Everything around me was silent. I opened my eyes wide, staring at the exquisite, luxurious crystal chandelier on the ceiling and the intricate, flamboyant exotic patterns on the wallpaper. Suddenly, it struck me with full clarity—I was truly in Dubai, a place so lavish it left no room for compromise, far away from my parents' care, and from now on, I could only fight this lonely battle on my own.

Lying there in a daze for a while, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the white medicine bottle Musa had given me. I hadn’t opened it yet. For one, my diarrhea had already stopped; for another, I simply didn’t trust Middle Eastern men enough. Even though Musa had a handsome face and gentle demeanor, I couldn’t fully shake off my instinctive unease toward a man in a white robe.

Drowsiness blurred my mind when the ringtone of a text message snapped me back to alertness. I glanced at my phone; the message was from an unknown number, a short line in English appearing: "Have you seen the new content added to the USB drive?"

The USB drive had been returned to me by Ayoub before class today. Although Ayoub and I had exchanged numbers just before parting ways, the sender’s number was completely unfamiliar. Yet, the location tagged was Dubai, so Ayoub must have told someone else. I pondered for a few seconds, then quickly responded with a question: "Are you Musa?"

Ayoub had said that the USB drive was found by Musa and then passed on to him. Could it be that during this time, Musa not only looked at the contents but also added new material to the drive?

The reply came quickly. Though it was a single word—"Yes"—it was enough to set my heart racing. I hurriedly retrieved the USB and plugged it into my computer.

There wasn’t much on the drive to begin with, and after scanning through it repeatedly, I couldn’t spot anything different from before. Just as I was about to text Musa back, my phone buzzed again with another message.

"Do you think my evaluation is fair?"

Evaluation? He had even evaluated it? I quickly scrutinized the contents again and noticed that every photo file from my qipao photoshoot had been renamed.

Previously, the photos carried the camera’s default export codes, but now each file name had been replaced with brief comments. Musa had even marked some photos with an “e” to indicate “my favorite one.”

My immediate reaction was anger. Who did he think he was? On what grounds did he presume to judge my photos? I guessed this was because Middle Eastern men were used to female dependence and obedience, steeped in deep-seated male chauvinism. But I was a proud, independent Chinese woman, an outstanding achiever since childhood, and I refused to be labeled by any Middle Eastern man.

Fuming, I grabbed my phone and replied bluntly, "I take photos for my own happiness, not for men to critique. Please do notI'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.