Scarface drained her tea and rose, her shadow stretching against the lacquered floor. "Tiger? No… at most, just an abandoned stray kitten. One that crawled out from between the cracks of a rock. Something that should never have been born."
She drifted to the wall, fingertips brushing the surface of the oil painting hanging there. The faceless woman in a qipao stood immortalized from behind, curves graceful, beauty undeniable even without a visage. Scarface's scarred hand stroked the painted fabric as if the silence itself whispered to her.
Her gaze lingered on the woman in the painting fondly yet with a touch of disdain and ridicule.
She glanced out the latticed window, to the muffled chaos of the arena below, her expression unreadable.
Boss Li's gaze sharpened. She had spoken of an "old man," then claimed to have clawed her way out of stone, an orphan. Contradictions. Lies. Or bait.
His voice slid through the room, low and dangerous:
"Miss… my Li family welcomes our guests with every courtesy. But the rest…" His tone darkened into something feral, "…they get a feast. A gorefest, to be precise."
The unspoken truth sank into the silence—guest, or carcass.
Scarface chuckled again, light as if the word gorefest amused her. She bent over with casual grace, poured herself another cup, and smirked: "Then shouldn't Boss Li offer his guest the finest Li family hospitality?"
A faint twitch crossed his brow. "Why my Li family?"
Her reply came without hesitation, almost sing-song, almost cruel:
"Because you pay well, Old Man. And I'm broke."
The porcelain clinked sharply against his teeth. Boss Li choked on his tea, coughing once, the smallest crack in his armor of composure.
Old man?
His eyes narrowed, the weight of a storm in them, when a flash caught in the corner of his vision—sharp metal, gleaming wickedly as it spun through the air in Scarface's scarred fingers, catching stray beams of broken light.
Boss Li's calm cracked into lethal sharpness. His voice was ice over steel.
"...Who are you?"
His tone, usually calm as still water, rose sharp and ragged. Boss Li surged to his feet, shadows shuddering with his sudden movement, and in a blur placed himself before Scarface. His clawed hand slashed for the coin in her palm.
Scarface pivoted lightly, slipping away as though his speed were nothing. Her scarred lips curved into a wicked grin.
"Old man… looks like you're aging fast. Your eyes blur, your claws falter. You're not what you used to be."
Boss Li froze. The hand that never trembled now shook. His eyes—eyes that had stared down a thousand deaths—reddened and wavered. Beneath his composure, something cracked.
Only one person had ever called him Old Man.
Only one had dared mock his strength to his face.
Only one would play tricks on him, laughing at the danger.
"You…!" His voice cracked, lips quivering as if the very words scorched him. "Aren't you de—!?"
The grotesque little smile on Scarface's ruined face widened as she casually flipped the silver coin, its scythe emblem catching the dim light like a sliver of moon over a grave. The coin spun, sang, then fell neatly into her tattooed fingers.
Recognition speared through him. His heart clenched. His breath stilled.
"…Master?"
For the first time in decades, the man who ruled through fear and blood let a rare, fragile smile touch his face. It was the smile of a man staring at a ghost.
Scarface's voice dropped into something mocking, almost singsong.
"Old man, I'm just a poor mercenary. My pals call me Scarface. Don't mistake me for your ghosts."
She tossed the coin again. It spun, dazzling, then snapped into her long scarred fingers like it belonged there.
Her actions too familiar. Too much etched into his mind.
Boss Li's throat closed. His voice, usually smooth as iron, caught and rasped.
"Where were you? This past year… I searched—I tore this world apart—" His chest heaved. He swallowed. "That face… a mask? Surgery? How… how can this be?!"
He stepped closer, every line of his hardened body trembling as he searched her. The scars, the tattoos, the ruined visage—it was a stranger's face. And yet—behind the eyes—
Scarface tilted her head, smile thin, eyes glimmering with something he could not name.
"No mask. No trick. This is my face. Now."
The coin slipped from her hand one last time, spinning lazily in the thick silence between them, its metallic hum echoing like a death knell.
A sombre heaviness settled on Boss Li's weathered face as the memories pressed in.
He remembered how she once reveled in her beauty, so proud, so radiant, her laughter bright enough to pierce through the shadows of his world. Now, staring at the scarred, disfigured face before him, his chest tightened painfully, as though a blade had been driven through it, leaving a sharp and bitter aftertaste in its wake.
No wonder her bold shamelessness, that teasing narcissism, had felt so achingly familiar.
His voice trembled beneath a calm he fought to maintain.
"Was it him?"
The words carried not only steel, but venom. A cold, murderous light flared in his eyes as he uttered his name, the weight of suppressed rage pressing through his calm exterior.
For the briefest of moments, emotion cracked through her own indolent mask, glimmering raw and unguarded in her eyes—then, just as quickly, it vanished, tucked away before he could seize it.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low, resolute, and chilling in its ruthlessness.
"It's not time yet, Old man. I came here first."
Boss Li's throat tightened. All the strength and pride that had carried him through decades of bloodshed seemed to bow in that instant. Slowly, almost reverently, he bent one knee to the ground. His proud head lowered, his voice carrying the weight of both loyalty and penitence:
"Master… this unworthy subordinate understands. I await your command."
Her eyes twitched, a faint ripple in her otherwise careless façade. With a dismissive wave of her hand, she gestured for him to rise.
"So you finally picked a side. Heh." She slipped back into her careless, ruffian tone, though her lips curved in the faintest smug smile.
Boss Li lifted his gaze. For once, there was no mask of command, no cold calculation. Only respect—and something softer, more fragile, buried deep in his eyes. A hint of joy, though tempered with grief.
"You came…" he whispered, the words heavy, almost reverent.
His gaze lingered on the scar carved across her face, and his heart clenched. What torment had she endured? What agony had carved away her radiance and left behind this mask?
How could 'he' have failed her so deeply?
She had given everything—her loyalty, her brilliance, her defiance in the face of the world—and in return, she had been broken. By him. By the very war they both waged.
And yet… she lived.
The thought flooded him with a strange, desperate relief, bitter and sweet all at once.
At least she's still alive, he told himself, as if clinging to that single truth could ease the crushing remorse that suffocated him.
--------------------
The arena was a cauldron of blood and screams. Roars, guttural groans, and the wet thud of fists crushing flesh blended into a single monstrous howl that drowned out reason.
The ring of masked guards loomed over it all, black silhouettes against the torchlight, their faceless stares sealing the pit like a wall of executioners.
Every soul inside had been promised the same thing—glory, wealth, and power beyond their wildest dreams. But first, they had to crawl through hell.
There were no blades, no shields, only flesh, bone, and the will to destroy or be destroyed. The rules were cruel in their simplicity: only one hundred would rise. The rest would become meat, trampled into the dirt and forgotten, their bodies indistinguishable from the crimson mud.
It was not combat. It was devouring. One against dozens, dozens against thousands. The fighters clawed and struck in blind desperation, teeth shattering, nails tearing, bones snapping under the relentless storm of blows. The stench of iron filled every breath, hot and suffocating, while blood rained in thick sprays that slicked the ground and turned every step into a stumble toward death.
The reward whispered In their minds—riches, status, a place among the strongest. That promise was the only thread keeping broken men standing when their limbs begged to collapse. For many, it was no longer about the reward, but the refusal to die forgotten, faceless in the pile of corpses.
Above, the masked guards did not move. Silent, pitiless, they tracked every twitch, every strike, every act of savagery. Their eyes behind the masks were sharp as knives, weighing not just who survived—but who was worth the prize.
In the pit, survival was not victory. Survival was only permission to keep bleeding for a greater master.
---------------------------
In Boss Li's study.
Finishing off the pot of tea, Scarface tilted the porcelain cup back and smacked her lips with exaggerated relish. "Mmm—smooth, bitter, and pretentious. Just like you, Old Man." She plopped the cup down on the low table with a clink and stretched lazily before swaggering toward the door, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm going down to the arena. Can't miss the bloodbath—front row seats and all."
"Master, you don't need to," Boss Li interjected sharply, his back straightening, his tone steady but carrying a rare urgency.
Scarface threw him a glance over her shoulder, her lips quirking into a crooked grin. "Boss Li, if I don't win the trial fair and square, those meatheads will start whining. And then they'll say you let yourself get swayed by my devastating beauty." She gestured broadly to her scarred, tattooed face with a mocking flourish. "Imagine that! Poor Old Man Li, bewitched by this."
Her laughter rang out, light and mischievous, bouncing off the walls of the study like tingling silver bells in a breeze, delicate yet sharp and dangerous.
Boss Li's eyes darkened, though his face remained calm, his silence weighing heavy. He had expected stubbornness, but her flippancy carried a blade beneath its humor.
Scarface leaned against the doorframe, eyes glinting mischievously. "Relax. I'm just Scarface now. A small fry. A mercenary rat. Nobody special. You'll see—when I smash a few hundred skulls in the arena, they'll be too busy picking their teeth out of the dirt to question your hospitality."
The old man's lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, his composure cracked, and something like exasperation flickered in his eyes. Looks like he had worried for nothing earlier.
"…Understood," Boss Li finally said, his voice low, grave. His gaze lingered on the figure leaving the study, her gait careless, shoulders loose, as though she weren't walking toward a pit of brutality but toward a drunken tavern brawl for fun.
Once the door shut, his old eyes sharpened with a bloodthirsty glint. He lifted his hand.
"Come in."
The shadows in the room stirred. A dark figure melted out of the corners, kneeling silently. Boss Li leaned close, whispering instructions in a voice colder than steel. The shadow nodded once, then vanished like a breath extinguished by the wind.
No one outside the study had seen him enter. No one would ever know he'd been there.
In the arena.
A small figure slipped between two towering masked guards and strode into the blood-soaked circle. The guards stiffened, hands twitching toward their weapons, but at the Supervisor's subtle gesture they froze, letting the intruder through.