Huet Noodles is running a midnight special. Spend 2,400 Hongs and get free bone-broth refills until closing.

  The crowded shuttle sped through Jung-Xhe Shopping Centre, its interior littered with colourful ads. Yutai stared silently out the window, and Pang scrolled through the Kowlooni Network on his handheld computer, slouching with his legs out, feet tucked under the seat in front of him.

  Every stop had shoppers pouring out and new ones flooding in, leaving no differences in the crowds inside. Between the hustle and bustle, a cheerful voice resonated through the cabin’s speakers, offering commentary on the latest sales and promotions

  NeonLotus Optics are waiving installation fees on standard retinal overlays. Upgrade today and receive a complimentary glare shield for night-market conditions.

  Despite his dimmed mood, Yutai felt captivated by the novelty of this shuttle. Its interior was almost as sleek as the exclusive King rails. The mall, an old structure in itself, now housed some of the most advanced technological marvels in all of Kowloon. The Zhaisheng was changing Kowloon faster than he could keep up.

  Old Kai Pawn and Salvage will pay premium for pre-Dongist Christian relics. Bring your artefacts through the side door. Appraisal takes five minutes.

  As the carriage gracefully navigated the gentle curves of its roof-suspended track, Yutai turned to Pang.

  ‘So,’ Yutai said, keeping his tone light. ‘Do you know who’s DJing at the party?’

  Pang didn’t look up from his screen. ‘Dunno. Haozhe said it’s someone decent.’

  ‘That’s all I get? “Someone decent”?’ Yutai tried a small smile. ‘You were practically bursting to impress me five minutes ago.’

  Pang’s thumb paused, then kept scrolling. ‘Yeah. Well. Let’s just hope the DJ doesn’t disappoint you like I do.’

  Yutai’s smile fell. ‘Come on Pang, don’t do that. You haven’t disappointed me.’

  ‘I’m just,’ Pang said flatly. ‘Just… Tired of being lectured. Get enough of it at home.’

  Yutai nodded once. ‘Alright. Fair. I get that.’ His eyes were back on the blur of lights outside.

  Shang Dance Security is accepting new contracts for shopfront and home. Two patrol drones included with every quarterly plan. Ask about our riot insurance discount.

  The shuttle finally stopped near the northern exit of the shopping centre. Yutai and Pang were carried out with the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, and through the mall’s sliding doors into the open.

  They’d travelled far. Yutai had never spanned Jung-Xhe like this before.

  Outside, they were met with North Yau’s air, cooler and harsher than the warmth of the mall. The noise and chaos didn’t disappear, it only changed. Music leaked from basement taverns. Scooters, stacked with two and three riders, whined past on narrow lanes. Vendors hauled carts of street food through the foot traffic, calling out specials over the sleep-cycle chaos.

  Under a buzzing lamp by a delivery bay, three workers in stained uniforms squatted and smoked, their eyes tracking every passersby without interest.

  Footbridges and lines of laundry and lanterns criss-crossed the air between the groundscrapers above them, like stitching being pulled apart.

  Pang walked with his shoulders slightly hunched, hands buried in his jacket pockets. Yutai kept close, watching faces and the way eyes lingered, making sure their expensive clothes didn’t invite the wrong kind of attention.

  At the end of the street, the PC-C interchange came into view: a tall white pole. At its top sat a circular orange lightbox, flat-faced, the faded characters 公通車 printed across it.

  Like most other interchanges, it was all concrete, and grime-coated fluorescent tube-light fixtures. The crowd pushed through in a constant mess: late-cycle commuters with tired faces, groups dressed for clubs, delivery workers shoving rattling trolleys, buskers with instruments strapped to their backs as they drifted in search of a better spot around the city. Every few minutes, a loudspeaker crackled into life, a weary voice half-distorted by static announcing arrivals and delays.

  Ji Sia gangsters patrolled the crowd in slow loops, making their presence known. It was enough to discourage brazen vandalism and brawls, but not enough to dampen the general chaos.

  Yutai steered Pangfua towards a row of ticket dispensers set into a stained tiled wall. He tapped in the destination, held his district ID up to a small camera, and waited as the machine quietly dispensed two thin paper tickets.

  ‘Keep close,’ Yutai murmured, pocketing them as he led Pang towards the marked waiting bay.

  A low engine-grumble started somewhere down the lane, then grew into a rattling roar that vibrated through the concrete under their shoes. Heat rolled in first, thick with exhaust and old oil. Heads turned. The crowd tightened and drifted towards the edge of the bay.

  The double-decker PC-C carriage lumbered into view and edged up to the curb. Its metal panels were crumbled and beaten, patched in places with mismatched sheets and rivets. Layers of colourful graffiti, spanning panels and windows alike, clung onto its sides. The windows themselves were worse: almost all of them were cloudy. Some were cracked, some had no frames at all. Beneath each window, pale stains of dried vomit streaked the side. The PC-C carriage was infamous for people always losing their last meals out the window.

  At the front corner, a small LED sign flickered with the bus number. Yutai pulled out his ticket and double-checked that it matched. It did.

  ‘That’s our ride,’ Yutai said, and moved. The doors folded open with a tired hiss. Yutai put a hand at Pangfua’s back and guided him in through the busy crowds boarding and exiting at the same time.

  The inside reeked of sweat, damp clothes, cheap perfumes, fried oil, and stale air that had been cooled and reventilated a hundred times. And still, it was hot enough to make even breathing feel tiring. People were packed shoulder to shoulder on the seats and down the narrow aisle. Knees were jammed with packed bags, fingers around hanging handles, sweaty faces slick under the flickering cabin lights.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Yutai murmured.

  They shoved their way down the aisle towards the back and climbed the cramped, curving stairwell, the metal steps sticky and worn, creaking with every step.

  They climbed into the upper deck and it wasn’t much better. The ceiling felt lower up here, the heat trapped, the windows barely letting in air. Yutai wedged them into a standing space near the busy aisle and held both the rail and Pang’s shoulder as the carriage lurched, taking them northwards in a grinding, swaying surge.

  After ten minutes and a few stops, two passengers to his right rose from a two-seater bench by the side and went down the stairs. Yutai slid into the seat at once. Before Pang could follow, someone else angled towards the empty spot beside him, but Yutai lifted a hand to stop him. ‘Sorry, brother. Saving it.’

  A moment later, Pangfua dropped into the seat beside him. The would-be sitter gave them both a dirty and drifted back into the aisle.

  ‘Thanks, big brother,’ Pangfua said quietly.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Yutai replied. ‘Wasn’t about to have you standing while I sat.’

  Pangfua held his gaze for a moment, then a small smile slipped through. He pulled out his handheld and started scrolling again.

  The bus meandered past the border and into North Kowloon and, little by little, the crush in the aisle loosened. People peeled off at stops, and some people on the upper deck headed downstairs. Enough space opened up that Yutai could finally see the wide window at the front, neon and street lights moving past. He felt as though he could breathe again.

  Not long after, a ticket checker shouldered his way to the top and stood before the brothers. He extended a palm and said nothing more.

  He only wore a button up shirt, the top two undone, and creased trousers.

  Yutai reached into his pockets and passed over their two paper tickets. The man didn’t even bother looking at it as he punched a whole in each and handed them back without a word.

  Yutai’s gaze drifted across the remaining passengers standing in the middle aisle. His attention was drawn to a trio clad in dark purples and violets, robes layered over hoodies. The fabric had a heavy drape that made them look taller than they were. But what truly set them apart were their full-face helmets: the face was a sweep of glossy, sleek and heavily tinted glass that smoothly curved up over the top of the head, framed at the base and back by polished purple metal.

  Flickering playfully across that dark, domed glass surface flickered looping LED animations of pixelated emoticons in vivid purple and pink hues: wide smiles melting into exaggerated cries, snapping into manic laughs, flashes of cartoonish anger, then bursting again into gleeful cackles.

  It all looked cute and novel to Yutai.

  ‘They look like they’re headed somewhere fun,’ Yutai commented to Pang, nodding subtly towards the elaborately dressed trio. Pang followed his gaze, and Yutai watched him catch sight of the trio through the gaps between passengers. They were standing barely two metres away in the aisle, hands hooked over the overhead straps, bodies rocking with the bus’s sway as it leaned left, then right.

  ‘Well duh, they’re going to the exact same place I’m taking you. Except those try-hards are going in full-themed costumes.’

  One of them shifted their head subtly towards the two brothers, noticing them notice his friends.

  Unaware that their observation had been noticed, Yutai let out a chuckle, and Pang joined in with a hand over his mouth. One of the masked men caught their amusement, nudging his companions and nodding his chin towards the seated brothers.

  The moment Yutai realised they’d noticed, the amusement drained out of him. The trio began working their way down the aisle, sidestepping passengers and closing in on the brothers’ seat.

  Yutai stood at once. His eyes locked on the curved screens, pixel faces flickering as they approached. Yutai took a single step into the aisle, planting himself firmly between them and Pangfua, shoulders squared.

  ‘You wanna tell us what’s so funny, dipshit?’ the one nearest to Yutai sneered, his voice deep and digitised through the helmet.

  Purple and pink pixels flickered into a winking skull that danced across the helmet’s screen, its glow reflecting off Yutai’s skin and glinting in his eyes. He would not allow them step a foot closer to his brother.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, friend,’ Yutai said, voice low and even. His expression didn’t shift. He kept his fists tight by his sides.

  The masked man leaned in until the tinted glass filled Yutai’s view. The winking skull bobbed across the faceplate like it was taunting him. ‘You think I can’t see you laughing outta my mask, dumbass?’ the voice rasped through its digitised filter. ‘You know what you’re even laughing at? This shit costs ten times the amount it cost you your rags.’

  Pang suddenly shot up and slid beside his brother. ‘Yeah right. Your cheap merch has nothing on this HoiSprint original set.’

  The other masked men just laughed.

  ‘That ain’t no real HoiSprint jacket, you runt,’ the one on their left said. ‘Let me see that tag!’

  His hand snapped for Pangfua’s collar.

  Yutai caught the wrist mid-reach. He wrenched it aside with a hard twist. The one in the middle grabbed a fistful of Yutai’s jacket at the chest, while the third swung a wide, ugly sucker-punch at him.

  Passengers craned to watch. Pangfua froze beside him, mouth open.

  Yutai was holding the incoming fist taut in his right palm, mere centimetres from his face.

  For a moment, it felt like no one knew what would happen next.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Yutai did. He drove five rapid knees into the man’s gut in front, snapped a low kick into the one on the right, then turned on his heel and slammed a sharp back elbow into the left man’s helmet.

  Gasps rippled down the aisle. People recoiled, shoving backwards to make space, while Pangfua edged back onto his seat.

  The assailant on his right launched himself in a full-body tackle. Yutai snatched two dangling handrails and hauled himself up, boots leaving the floor.

  The man flew underneath him, missed entirely, and slammed into Pangfua who was sat on the seat. For a split second, they awkwardly hugged each other, before Yutai dropped behind them. He grabbed the back of the purple robes and yanked the man off Pangfua, then whipped him over the seat’s backrest.

  The masked body crashed into the row behind, bowling into two seated passengers who burst out into startled shouts and screams.

  Pangfua stumbled back against the glass, a wide grin breaking across his face. He yanked out his handheld and started recording, dragging a hand through his hair. ‘Holy shit. That’s my brother! Woooo!’

  Two of the robed men seized Yutai from behind and hauled him backwards. He slammed onto a bench across the aisle, its occupants scrambling up just in time as his back hit the seat.

  They moved to pile on him.

  Yutai’s legs snapped up and kicked both heads. He kipped up off the seat, seeing both were stunned, their helmets cracked across the face, pixel animations erratic and glitching.

  One slugged a fist. The punch only cut air.

  In the same breath, Yutai shrugged his puffer jacket off, whipped a sleeve around the attacker’s wrist, and yanked tight. He looped the other sleeve over a hanging handrail and cinched it, pinning the arm up as the bus swayed.

  The last one tried to bolt down the aisle, shouldering passengers aside as he fled towards the back.

  Yutai was faster.

  He sped up behind him, clamped both hands around the sides of the helmet, and slammed the faceplate down onto the exposed metal corner of a seat back. Glass clacked and then cracked. Again, again, again.

  The man crumpled to the floor, hands scrabbling at his mask as he writhed.

  Yutai turned back to the last one. The man was still half-trussed to the hanging handle, desperately tugging with the puffer sleeve tied around his wrist. Passengers squeezed themselves into seats to clear the aisle, leaving a wide lane between them. Leaving only open space and anxiety.

  Yutai fixed his gaze at the man. Through the fractures on the right side of the faceplate, an eye stared back, wide and terrified within the helmet’s shadow.

  The man jerked free and stumbled back, trying to run towards the front of the deck. There was no where to go. This was the one who’d reached for Pangfua.

  Yutai walked towards him, slow at first, then faster. The man hit the front, slammed a fist against the wide front as the streets and groundscrapers slid past, as if the glass might somehow let him through.

  Yutai reached him, grabbed the back of his robes, and pulled him down hard onto the floor.

  People crept forward towards the chaos, many recording on their devices. Pangfua pushed right to the edge, recording from the front with the flash on. ‘That’s right, teach him a lesson, bro!’

  The man rolled onto his back, scrambling to face Yutai, the pixel face on his mask glitching in panic, that same single eye staring at him through the fractured hole. The glitched emoticon was stuck in a mocking grin. At that point, Yutai wasn’t looking at a hooligan going to a party. No, Yutai was seeing the Ibilis, cowardly and weak, threatening the innocent behind a mask made to scare.

  ‘I’m sorry, dude, okay?!’ he said, staggering up onto his elbows. ‘Yezu Christ man, we were just joking!’ His voice came through half-digitised, the crack in the mask letting a thin edge of his real voice come through.

  Yutai punted the man’s head with the force of a seasoned zuche player striking a ball. The impact sent his head crashing backwards, helmet ricocheting bluntly against the floor.

  Yutai positioned himself menacingly over his downed opponent. He then pressed the bottom of his sneaker against the side of the man’s helmet. He gradually increased the pressure. The helmet began to buckle, denting inwards with a dry creak, forcing its way against the skull inside. The chaotic carriage fell into silence as the man grunted, then broke out into screams. Agonising yelling. The man’s arms flailed against Yutai’s leg, clawed his grey trackpants, but to no avail. Onlookers, including his little brother, witnessed this brutal torture.

  Yutai was going to destroy the Ibilis tonight.

  Suddenly, he felt a tug at his arm. His eyes snapped up. Pangfua. He wasn’t recording any more. The grin was gone. His face had drained, frightened in the harsh cabin light.

  ‘Brother,’ Pangfua said quietly. ‘I think they’ll leave us alone now…’

  Yutai’s brows were still knotted with rage. He looked down and, for the first time, properly saw what was under his shoe: not the Ibilis, not a nightmare, just a garishly dressed punk on the floor.

  He eased his foot away and straightened slowly. The agonised man on the floor lay still, chest rising in deep breaths, passed out.

  The bus began to slow. Below them came the familiar hiss and clatter of doors opening.

  They’d reached District Pat Sin’s capital.

  Light flashed from tower to tower, advertisements drifting between groundscrapers and bouncing off every window and polished pane. There were hardly any street vendors, only stalls that felt curated: carts buffed clean, lanterns perfectly round, steam rising from grills in tidy white ribbons before vanishing into vents that kept the smell from ever reaching the street.

  Nothing here moved with desperation. Shoes stayed clean. Fabrics shouted money. Even the smiles Yutai caught from strangers came easily.

  In the middle of the avenue sat Chorra’s Flux, a monolithic club that was block of black glass and purple lights. Its entrance was framed by LED fixtures that pulsed deep blues, violets, and hot pinks. A queue snaked from the doors all the way down the avenue, hundreds of partygoers dressed to be seen.

  Yutai and Pangfua stood near the end of it. In the ten minutes they’d been waiting, the line had thickened behind them, but the bouncers at the front were still only distant silhouettes. Pang slouched against the metal barrier, a waist-high partition, scrolling on his handheld the way he had for most of the journey. Yutai stayed upright, alert, quietly cataloguing the faces ahead of them and behind.

  What was strange was the absence of music. Kowlooni clubs usually bled bass into the street, a thump you felt in your ribs before you even knew where it was coming from. An avenue like this should have been vibrating with whatever was playing inside.

  Instead there was only the murmur of the queue, the thrum of distant vehicles, and the bright, disembodied voices of advertisements from above.

  ‘Awfully quiet for a club,’ Yutai muttered. ‘We too early or something?’

  Pang finally looked up. ‘It’s not like anywhere you’ve been before. I told you. These new places are mad.’

  Yutai gave a small shrug. ‘Can’t believe I’m old enough to say that the clubs in my time actually played loud music.’

  Yutai expected Pang to laugh, but there was nothing. An awkward silence. It’d been like this since they got off the PC-C.

  He decided not to force it. He let the sounds of the district fill the space instead.

  Then, a shout came across from the avenue.

  ‘Pang! Pangfua!’

  Yutai and Pang’s head snapped up. Pang let out a smile and waved his hand. ‘Over here!’

  Three boys pushed through the foot traffic on the far side of the fence and stopped opposite them. One of them leaned in with a grin.

  ‘Aye, if it isn’t Mister Kingmaker!’

  Yutai arched a brow. Mister Kingmaker? That’s what they call him?

  Pang’s mood shifted like a switch flipping. He reached over the railing to clasp palms with each of them one after another, laughing under his breath.

  The first boy looked like he’d stepped straight out of a premium streetwear showroom, dressed in pieces you’d expect to see on a mannequin that wasn’t actually for sale. His jacket caught the light with a faint blue holographic sheen. Stacks of silver rings glinted on his fingers, graphene chains at his neck, a stud in his nose, earrings swinging as he moved. His long hair was styled and streaked green and pink, and he carried himself with an easy, careless looseness.

  He looked at Yutai and then back at Pang with disbelief. ‘Bro, is this your bro?’

  Pang’s chest lifted. ‘Yeah. That’s my big brother. The real Kingmaker himself.’ He nodded towards him. ‘Brother, this is Lokyan. Most spoiled kid in North Kowloon.’

  Lokyan stuck out his palm with a wide grin, and Yutai shook it.

  ‘You the one dragging Pang out every night?’ Yutai asked with a disarming grin.

  Lokyan opened his mouth, but the second boy stepped in first with a smile just as wide as Lokyan’s. ‘Light, you’re actually real.’ He offered his palm. ‘Haozhe. I’ll be honest, I’m the one stealing him.’

  Yutai shook his hand, smiling like it was nothing. ‘Then you’re the one who’s got to stay clear of Mu.’

  Haozhe moved differently from Lokyan. Not as laidback, a more focused look in his eyes. Older by a couple of years, maybe. His fit was clean and cyber-street: an oversized dark button-up with sharp seams, baggy trousers that fell right, sleek trainers, a white beanie folded high above the ears, and thin orange shades that made his eyes hard to read. Not loud-money, but trendy and well-coordinated.

  ‘He’s our street sage. The alley advisor,’ Pang added.

  ‘I prefer “Roadman rodent.” And I’m the reason we’ve got tickets to this joint.’

  ‘Our DJ link!’ Yutai said, amused. ‘If this party’s shit, then I’ve got you to blame.’

  The third moved quieter than the others. Dark, plain clothes, nothing that screamed money, but everything sat neatly, disciplined. His hair was tidy, posture composed, and a thin cord rested at his neck, the sort that could pass for jewellery if you didn’t know it was a just a stylish Dongist prayer chain. He offered his palm.

  ‘I’m Faijun, sir,’ he said. ‘Pangfua’s told us a lot about you. I’m a fan of the work you lot do. It’s an honour.’

  Yutai shook his hand, blinking at the formality. ‘Ah. Clergy boy.’ His mouth tugged. ‘Surprised your parents let you come all the way out here.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re all surprised,’ Lokyan chimed in.

  Haozhe snorted. ‘Probably uses the same tricks Pang uses on his parents.’

  Lokyan braced both hands on the fence and hopped over it. Haozhe and Faijun followed, landing neatly and slotting in beside the brothers in the queue.

  ‘You boys are late,’ Haozhe said. ‘The virtual sessions will be finished soon.’

  Pang scoffed. ‘We were making an entrance. Something fitting for a Kingmaker and his field partner.’

  Lokyan grinned, giving Yutai a slow up-and-down. ‘Would’ve been cold if you turned up in the trench coat, big bro.’

  ‘You really want him to come clubbing in his work uniform?’ Haozhe replied.

  ‘A Kingmaker’s work uniform,’ Lokyan said. ‘Brother would’ve had the whole club fawning at his boots!’

  Faijun stayed half a step back. His gaze held on Yutai a fraction too long, hard to read in the low light.

  The queue crept forward another inch. Yutai, Pang, and the three boys took a single step, then stopped again.

  ‘By the Light, this line is criminal,’ Lokyan said. ‘I should slip the bouncer a few extra Hongs and have us be done with it.’

  Haozhe glanced around the avenue, eyes narrowing as if he’d just remembered something. Then he looked back at them. ‘I’ve got a shortcut inside. I know this venue.’

  ‘DJ link, roadman rodent, and now shortcut strategist? Yutai said dryly. ‘What, your dad own the place?’

  ‘If anyone’s dad owns it, it’s Lok’s,’ Pang shot back.

  ‘Fuck it, take us through the shortcut, man,’ Lokyan tugged Haozhe. ‘My legs are beginning to ache and I haven’t even started dancing yet.’

  All five hopped the fence.

  Haozhe led them away from the queue and down a side lane, away from the main street. The sound of the avenue disappeared behind them, replaced by the lull of service corridors and the churn of ventilation.

  Lokyan complained under his breath about the grime touching his shoes. Pang laughed and shoved him lightly. Faijun stayed quiet, walking neatly, eyes forward.

  They ducked through a staff door into a packed restaurant in the middle of the dinner rush, glasses clinking and old Kowlooni songs humming from ceiling speakers. Keeping to the walls, they quickly slipped up a set of creaky steps, then along a narrow corridor that smelled faintly of bleach and chlorine. Just before the restrooms on the other end, Haozhe pushed open an unmarked side door to their left. They crossed a covered footbridge, and below them the avenue they were in stretched both ways, the queue still snaking towards Chorra’s Flux.

  They emerged into a wide corridor with musty air. Overflowing bins lined the walls, lids half-open, and the floor was littered with wrappers and crushed cups. Tired partygoers loitered in pockets along the sides. Some smoked tabac sticks, others slouched over their screens, eyes reflecting a cold white glow.

  Along the right side ran a massive stretch of panoramic glass. Beyond it, North Kowloon spread out in glittering layers, groundscrapers alive with giant animated screens and floating adverts. Yutai’s steps slowed as he stared out it. Floating holograms showcasing luxury brands dominated nearly every gap between towers, so clean and bright they made the night look freshly minted. Yutai noticed that every advertisement was of high-end brands. Unlike the rest of Kowloon, where ads swung between expensive and cheap, everyday goods, up here everything on display was priced for people who never had to check their balance. Products Yutai’s family could never afford when they lived in Sung Wong. Nothing spoke of the Kowlooni struggle. Nothing reflected what the what the world was going through. No one would be able to tell the Yangs were an existential threat to everyone.

  Yutai stopped for a moment and just stared.

  His mind pulled him back to District Pik, uninvited, lining the two places up side by side. Brick and stone groundscrapers, dark with age and rot. Streets thinned by famine. Children with hollow faces and bellies watching him pass, wondering if their saviour had come. It was as if the entire district had already surrendered to its grim fate.

  Where he’d greeted Pik to slay its leader, District Pat Sin was greeting him as a partygoer.

  Yutai’s jaw tightened, a pit opening in his gut. He wondered, not for the first time, whether Mingchi’s death would ever inch Pik towards anything like the prosperity of North Kowloon, or whether all he’d done was tighten their eternal loop of suffering and call it progress.

  ‘Brother,’ Haozhe called out, pulling him back. ‘This way.’

  Yutai blinked and forced himself to move. They walked the length of the window, passing smokers and slumped bodies under flickering lights. At the far end, an open door waited, guarded by a lone bouncer standing open in the doorway.

  ‘Told you guys. Shortcut,’ Haozhe

  They approached in a loose cluster, but the bouncer lifted a hand before they could step through.

  ‘Stamp.’

  ‘Oh, uh. Ours rubbed off,’ Haozhe raised his forearm and stared at an empty patch of skin.

  ‘No re-entry stamp, no re-entry.’

  Haozhe blinked. ‘Come on, dude. We literally walked out the front gate an hour ago to grab drinks.’

  ‘Any of your pals have stamps?’

  Haozhe frowned. ‘Bro, I can’t believe this. We’ve got people waiting for us inside. Just let us in, dude.’

  The bouncer crossed his arms and went back to staring down the corridor, impassive.

  Lokyan shoved his way to the front. ‘Oh, you wanna see a stamp? I’ll show you stamp.’

  He yanked out his wallet and flashed an ID card under the bouncer’s nose. ‘See that stamp, you mongrel? That’s the seal of the Siu-Kwok family. I’m Li Siu-Kwok’s second eldest son.’

  The bouncer cocked a brown and peered down. His face didn’t change.

  ‘In case you still don’t get it, this stamp means you say a number, and I’ll make sure your account increases by that number.’

  ‘Sorry,’ the bouncer said, flat. ‘Only stamp I care about is the one that’s meant to be on your arm.’

  ‘What do I look like to you, huh?’ Lokyan jerked his chin up to the man. ‘Think I can’t find out who you work—’

  ‘Brother, it’s alright.’ Faijun, who had been quiet until now, stepped in. His voice was calm and polite. He looked up at the bouncer. ‘I’m a friend of Ka-Shing Lau.’

  The bouncer’s eyes shifted, properly taking Faijun in for the first time. Something small changed in his stance. ‘Mr Lau?’ he asked. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s been an associate of my father’s since before I was born.’

  The bouncer paused. ‘You’re clergy?’

  Faijun didn’t blink. ‘Kwong Faijun.’ He pulled out his Dongist necklace and showed it to the man. ‘You can check. He’ll confirm.’

  The bouncer held Faijun’s gaze for a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose.

  He stepped aside.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, flat again. ‘Straight up the stairs. And don’t come back out without a stamp.’

  Haozhe’s eyebrows lifted. Lokyan’s frown deepened. Pangfua let out a low, triumphant whistle as they slipped through the door and into the dark.

  Once they were inside and only their footsteps echoed around them, Lokyan leaned in at Faijun’s shoulder. ‘Alright then. Who do you know?’

  Haozhe asked even quieter. ‘Yeah. Since when do you have back-door people? You’ve never been the networking type.’

  Faijun’s expression didn’t change. He kept walking as if it was nothing. ‘Just someone from my family’s circle,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Faijun saves the day,’ Pang called out with a grin. ‘Now nothing in here will surprise me!’

  Yutai didn’t join the banter. He felt it instead, a small prickle at the base of his neck. The bouncer’s pause. The recognition. How quickly the door had opened once Faijun spoke.

  Clergy kid, Yutai thought. You’ve got more going on than you’re letting on.