Jiang admires the pictures with conviction, going through and selecting a variety of them to send to Kavinsky without any context or anything else to say. It's possessive, and more than that it's a bit asinine because they both know that Kavinsky's been there too.

He sends one with a particularly good angle on the gape of both Proko's cunt and ass, the sloppy mess of come and spit smeared on his skin. Then he sets his phone aside.

"I can't stay," he says, solemnly.