The metallic *clatter* of the embroidery scissors hitting the floorboards echoed like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating silence of Qi's Silken Threads. Qí Hǔ stood frozen behind the counter, the delicate lace forgotten under the magnifying lamp, his world reduced to the woman framed in the doorway. Lán Yīng. The name was a prayer and a curse tangled on his tongue, unspoken. The light from the alley gilded her silhouette, but as she stepped fully into the shop's dim interior, the details etched themselves onto his vision with painful clarity. The simple elegance of her twilight-blue dress, the cascade of dark hair over one shoulder, the familiar curve of her cheekbone – all achingly reminiscent of the girl he'd loved. But her eyes… Her eyes were oceans of dark, turbulent emotion – shock, disbelief, a raw, unfathomable hurt that seemed to have calcified over twelve years, and beneath it all, a terrifying glimmer of fragile, desperate hope. She looked like the ghost of his past and the embodiment of every regret he'd carried.
She didn't speak. She moved forward with a quiet, deliberate grace that felt charged with lightning. She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he could see the faint tremor in her hands clenched at her sides, smell the subtle, expensive floral scent that clung to her, so alien in the shop's atmosphere of sandalwood and dust. Her gaze locked onto his, searching his face, reading the years etched there, the faded scar above his collar, the guarded stillness in his dark eyes. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of a decade of absence.
Then, her right hand snapped out. Not a tentative touch, not a hesitant caress. A stinging, open-palmed slap that cracked across his cheekbone with shocking force. The sound was sharp, final, shattering the fragile tension.
"Twelve years," her voice was a low, vibrating wire of pure, distilled fury and anguish. It wasn't a shout; it was worse – a controlled explosion of pain. "Twelve *years*, you *asshole*! Where were you?!" Her chest heaved, tears welling but not falling, held back by sheer, furious will. "Where *were* you when we thought you were dead? When we searched? When we grieved? When *I*…" Her voice broke, the raw vulnerability surfacing for a split second before the anger slammed back down. "You vanished! Like smoke! No word! Nothing! What gave you the *right*?!"
Qí Hǔ didn't flinch from the slap, though the sting bloomed hot on his skin. He absorbed the blow, the accusation, the tidal wave of her pain. He opened his mouth, the words "I'm sorry" forming on his lips, inadequate, pathetic. He needed to explain the shame, the crushing weight of failure, the misguided belief that disappearing was the only protection he could offer.
But before a single syllable could escape, the shop bell jangled again, harsh and intrusive. A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the fading afternoon light. He was tall, expensively dressed in a sharply cut linen suit, his hair meticulously styled, his handsome face twisted in an expression of distaste as he surveyed the cramped, cluttered shop. His gaze swept dismissively over the bolts of fabric, the spools of thread, lingering on Qí Hǔ's worn clothes before settling on Lán Yīng's rigid back.
"Lán, babe," his voice was smooth, cultured, but laced with unmistakable impatience. "Can we *go*, please? I told you, I really don't like these cheap little alleyways. They give me the creeps." He took a step inside, wrinkling his nose pointedly. "And this store… it reeks. Dust and old fabric. Not exactly the Ritz, is it?" He reached out, placing a proprietary hand lightly on Lán Yīng's arm.
Lán Yīng flinched almost imperceptibly at his touch but didn't turn. "Not now, David," she said, her voice tight, strained, her eyes still locked on Qí Hǔ's face. "Just… give me a moment."
David's smile tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he finally registered the intense, silent tableau – Lán Yīng's furious posture, the red mark blooming on the shopkeeper's cheek, the palpable history crackling in the air. He stepped further in, positioning himself possessively just behind Lán Yīng's shoulder, his gaze sweeping over Qí Hǔ with cool appraisal, devoid of any recognition or warmth.
"Lán," David prompted, his hand tightening slightly on her arm, his tone subtly insistent. "Introduce me to your… friend?" The pause before "friend" was loaded with condescension.
Lán Yīng took a shaky breath, finally tearing her gaze from Qí Hǔ. She gestured vaguely, her movements stiff. "David… this is Qí Hǔ. An… an old friend. From a long time ago. He… disappeared." The word hung heavy. She turned her head slightly back towards Qí Hǔ, her voice flat, formal. "Qí Hǔ, this is David. My… boyfriend."
The word "boyfriend" landed like a physical blow, harder than the slap. Qí Hǔ felt the air leave his lungs. He saw the confirmation in David's smug, slightly superior expression, in the possessive hand on Lán Yīng's arm. The fragile, impossible hope that had flickered for a second when he saw her face died instantly, replaced by a cold, hollow ache that spread through his chest. Twelve years. Of course she had moved on. What had he expected? He was a ghost haunting a dusty alley shop. David was the living present, polished and successful.
"Qí Hǔ," Qí Hǔ managed, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, devoid of inflection. He gave a minimal nod of acknowledgment towards David.
David didn't return the nod. He barely glanced at Qí Hǔ. His attention was solely on Lán Yīng, his impatience palpable. "Charmed, I'm sure," he murmured, the politeness paper-thin. "Now, Lán, really. We have the Rutherfords' cocktail thing at seven-thirty. We need to get you changed. This…" he gestured dismissively at the shop, at Qí Hǔ, "...is hardly worth being late for. You've seen him. He's alive. Great. Mystery solved. Can we *please* go?" He tugged gently but firmly on her arm.
Lán Yīng looked back at Qí Hǔ, a storm of conflicting emotions warring in her eyes – fury, residual hurt, a flicker of something like apology, and the overwhelming pressure of David's presence. "I… I'll come back later," she said, the promise sounding hollow even to her own ears, forced out under David's impatient gaze.
David didn't wait. He steered her firmly towards the door, his hand now firmly on the small of her back. "Later, maybe. Come *on*, darling." He ushered her out, casting one last, disdainful look over his shoulder at the shop before the door swung shut behind them, the bell jangling with cruel cheerfulness.
Qí Hǔ stood perfectly still in the sudden silence. The red mark on his cheek pulsed faintly. The spot where David's eyes had swept over him felt contaminated. The scent of expensive floral perfume lingered, clashing violently with the sandalwood. The hollow ache in his chest was a vast, empty space. He looked down at the embroidery scissors lying on the floor. He didn't pick them up.
Slowly, mechanically, he walked to the shop door. He turned the heavy brass key in the lock. Then, he walked to the front window and flipped the small, hand-painted "Open" sign hanging there so that "Closed" faced the alley. The click of the sign felt final. He moved back behind the counter. He crouched down, opened a low cupboard door concealed beneath the till, and pulled out a bottle. Not the cheap rice wine he sometimes shared with Old Man Li. This was a bottle of *baijiu*, harsh, clear sorghum liquor, bought years ago and forgotten. The firewater of oblivion. He found a single, chipped tumbler, poured a generous measure, the sharp, medicinal smell cutting through the air. He didn't sip. He threw it back in one burning gulp, the liquor searing a path down his throat, momentarily eclipsing the cold ache inside.
He was pouring a second glass when the bell jangled again. He didn't look up. He knew the step.
Zhāng Měi pushed the door open, a bag of fresh groceries in her arms. "Qi? Why's the sign flipped? Did Madame Wu finally bankrupt you with her impossible colour requests?" Her cheerful tone died as she took in the scene: Qí Hǔ behind the counter, the closed sign, the bottle of *baijiu*, the second glass already poured, the unnatural stillness hanging over him like a shroud. Her sharp eyes missed nothing – the faint redness on his cheekbone, the bleak emptiness in his eyes.
She set the groceries down silently on the counter. He slid the second tumbler towards her without a word. She looked at it, then at the bottle, then back at his face. "Isn't it a bit early for that particular brand of comfort, Qi?" she asked softly, her usual acerbic edge blunted by concern. She didn't touch the glass.
"Lán Yīng visited," Qí Hǔ stated, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. He picked up his own glass, staring into the clear liquid. "With her boyfriend."
Zhāng Měi froze for a heartbeat. Her gaze sharpened, flicking again to his cheek, understanding dawning. She didn't ask for details. She didn't need to. The picture was painfully clear: the reunion, the slap, the entitled boyfriend, the hurried exit. The fresh wound salted by the polished reality of Lán Yīng's new life. She let out a slow breath, a sound of shared pain and fierce protectiveness. "Ah," was all she said. She reached out and finally picked up the tumbler. She didn't drink. She just held it, her knuckles white. "The boys are stuck," she added after a moment, her voice carefully neutral. "Chén Léi's buried in the Jin fallout, Wáng Jiàn's dealing with a server meltdown in Singapore. Looks like it's just us tonight." She gestured towards the groceries. "I brought stuff for hotpot. Simpler."
Qí Hǔ nodded once, a curt dip of his chin. He downed the second shot of *baijiu*, welcoming the fiery numbness. "Alright."
They worked in a companionable, heavy silence, setting up the portable gas stove on the cleared worktable, arranging plates, washing vegetables. Zhāng Měi filled the quiet with stories from their Harbor Light days, deliberately steering clear of anything involving Lán Yīng. She talked about the time Chén Léi tried to dye his hair black with shoe polish, about Wáng Jiàn's first, disastrous attempt at building a radio that shocked Old Man Feng, about her own early, hilariously bad attempts at sewing. Qí Hǔ listened, occasionally offering a grunt of acknowledgment, focusing on slicing the meat thinly, the rhythmic motion a small anchor. The fragrant broth began to simmer, filling the shop with warm, inviting aromas that fought against the lingering tension.
They had just sat down, bowls ready, steam rising between them, when the sound came. Not the shop bell. A thunderous, splintering *CRASH* from the rear of the shop, near the back alley entrance. The flimsy wooden door leading to the small storage yard and the back alley buckled inwards, torn off its hinges. Framed in the jagged opening was a man. Tall wasn't the word; he was massive, a mountain of muscle packed into dark, nondescript clothes. His head was shaved, his face a brutal landscape of scars and cold, dead eyes. He filled the doorway, blocking the fading light, radiating an aura of pure, violent menace.
Zhāng Měi gasped, jumping to her feet, her stool clattering backwards. "Qi!" The name was a strangled cry of fear.
Qí Hǔ was already moving. Not startled, but transitioning from stillness to lethal readiness in a heartbeat. He didn't stand. He *flowed* up, placing himself instantly and decisively between Zhāng Měi and the intruder. His hand shot back, not to push her away, but to find hers, gripping it firmly, pulling her behind him in one smooth, protective motion. Zhāng Měi instinctively clutched the back of his worn shirt, her fingers digging into the fabric, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her body trembling against his back.
The giant didn't enter fully. He stood on the threshold, his cold eyes sweeping the shop, lingering for a second on Zhāng Měi cowering behind Qí Hǔ, then fixing on Qí Hǔ himself. There was no fear in those eyes, only a predatory assessment. He reached into his jacket pocket, not hurriedly, and pulled out a single, cream-colored envelope. He held it out, not offering, just presenting it.
"Qi Hǔ," the voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding together. It wasn't a question.
Qí Hǔ met his gaze, his own expression a mask of cold granite. He released Zhāng Měi's hand, keeping her shielded behind him. He took a single step forward, closing half the distance to the giant. He didn't reach for the envelope immediately. He held the giant's stare, a silent challenge hanging in the air thick with the smell of hotpot broth and imminent violence.
The giant's lips twitched in something that wasn't a smile. He flicked the envelope. It sailed through the air, landing with a soft *thwap* at Qí Hǔ's feet. "Message," the giant grunted. He didn't wait for a response. He turned, his bulk filling the shattered doorway again, and vanished into the gloom of the back alley as silently as he'd appeared, leaving the splintered door hanging crookedly.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Zhāng Měi's shaky breathing and the frantic bubbling of the hotpot broth. Qí Hǔ didn't move immediately. He kept his gaze fixed on the ruined doorway for a long moment, his senses stretched, ensuring the threat was truly gone. Then, slowly, he crouched down and picked up the envelope. It was heavy, expensive paper. There was no address. Just a single symbol embossed on the front in dark, almost black, ink: a stylized, intricate bird cage. The Nightingale Loom.
"Call Chén Léi," Qí Hǔ said, his voice low and tight. He straightened up, the unopened envelope held loosely in his hand, his eyes already scanning the shadows beyond the broken door, the cold, hollow ache momentarily replaced by the familiar, icy grip of impending danger. "Now."
Zhāng Měi fumbled for her phone, her hands trembling. As she dialed, Qí Hǔ turned the envelope over. He didn't need to open it yet. He knew. The peace, fragile as it was, was shattered. The past wasn't just knocking anymore; it had kicked the door down and delivered its calling card. The fight Jin started was far from over. It had just escalated. And Lán Yīng's tears, David's disdain, the sting of the slap… they were suddenly distant concerns, drowned out by the chilling silence left by the giant and the heavy weight of the symbol in his hand.