After finally finishing the report and getting Linda's approval, Felix was free to head home.
Inside, he found Rachel already back, sulking on the couch.
"What's this? Someone boiled you alive? You look like a crab fresh out of the pot."
He walked over, pinched her puffed cheeks—smooth and warm to the touch.
"What's going on between you and that girl in 302?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
"Nothing? Then why'd she bring you dumplings she made herself? Chive and egg, too."
"Really? That's my favourite. Guess tonight we'll have dumplings then."
"They're already cooked. In the kitchen." Rachel pointed with her chin.
Felix fetched the bowl, sat down with his back to her, and took a bite. "Not bad. Tastes pretty good. Did you eat yet?"
"I did. They're good."
"Maybe we should ask her for some more next time."
Rachel nodded. "I wouldn't mind."
Felix exhaled quietly in relief, thinking he'd dodged it.
Then Rachel's voice cut through again: "Don't think you're getting away. Tell me properly—face me. What's your relationship?"
He turned toward her. "There is no relationship. Think about it—if there was, would she bother with dumplings? She'd have just brought herself over."
"…Makes a kind of sense."
"It makes perfect sense. I'm telling you, I'm living like a monk these days. My back hurts. No energy, you know?"
Rachel arched her brows, her fingers tracing lightly across his cheek, her eyes gleaming strangely. "Your back hurts? Really no energy?"
Felix blinked, jaw tightening. "I mean… maybe I… still do… yeah, I guess I do…"
Rachel laughed and shoved him playfully. "Look at you, scared stiff. I'm not a witch. Eat your dumplings. We'll go out after."
"Got it." He ate quickly, then asked, "Where are we going?"
"Music. There's a warehouse gig in Boyle Heights—some rappers from Atlanta are performing. Thought we'd check it out."
"Rap, hip-hop… not really my thing."
"It's just for the atmosphere. Doesn't matter if you get it or not. If you don't like it, we'll leave."
"Fine."
Felix finished eating, strapped on his backup gun and three spare mags, and left with Rachel.
Boyle Heights was ten kilometres from his place, though just a couple from Monterey Park, where he'd grown up. Funny, he'd never been.
The warehouse sat near South Lorena Street and Grande Vista. Supposed to be hard to find, but in reality the noise made it impossible to miss. At nine at night, shops were shut, but the warehouse blared with sound loud enough to shake blocks. The fact that no one had called the cops for a disturbance was a miracle.
Outside, cars jammed the curb, while five or six tattooed skinny kids lounged at the door, smoking, eyes sharp with hostility at every approaching car.
Felix disliked them instantly. Still, he paid, got the tickets, and walked in.
The warehouse doors opened—blinding lights, a mass of silhouettes writhing to the music. Onstage, a few figures twitched and jerked—only after his eyes adjusted did he realise they weren't seizing, they were playing guitars.
The speakers carried every shouted word across the hall:
And I'm sorry if I up the stick and have to click on you
I ain't going back to jail, nigga, fuck the feds
If I gotta kill a nigga, gotta cut the dreads
The crowd below was no better—heads thrashing, bodies jerking in manic rhythm, half of them likely positive if tested for drugs on the spot.
On the fringes it was no calmer—drinking, lines snorted off hands, couples half-undressed and entwined in corners. Felix gave Rachel a sharp look. You like this?
Rachel caught it. "It's for class. We're supposed to compare East Coast and West Coast styles for a project. I've never been to places like this before—it's a mess."
A mess indeed. Felix wrapped an arm around her, finding a patch marginally cleaner, and stood listening.
The band left, replaced by three men draped in chains and rings, long hair under caps scrawled with fukk and trap. Sunglasses at night, faces hidden.
The emcee announced their track—Like A Pimp.
Beats thudded. They rapped:
Stomp a nigga out like I'm in a frat
You nat-nats bore me like a gnat—Migos facts
But for the sake of money, I greet you with a smiling face
Fuck how this shit feel
This ain't studio pimping—this is my work
Felix felt nothing. Rachel, watching him, lost interest too.
They were about to leave when the emcee roared: "Give it up for Mango Foo!"
Felix glanced back. A wiry figure climbed the stage—red-dyed dreadlocks over black, gold chain, gold watch, tattoos thick on his skin.
He grabbed the mic:
I gave you Threatz, Ultimate next, shout out the Klan because that's on the set
Fuck with me I will put you to rest
Lie and you'll remember to speak with your chest
Gooking forever I'm still at your neck
As Mango Foo rapped, Felix's instincts prickled. The crowd's energy was shifting—restless, volatile.