The city had gone quiet in that heavy way Hong Kong only managed before a storm — like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for the punchline. Every window on the block was taped into white X's hastily inscribed with warding sigils, every awning tied down with rope, every neon sign flickering low like it was embarrassed to still be on. Even the wet market downstairs had packed up early, aunties dragging crates of lychees and carp heads inside like soldiers retreating from a lost battle.
Only the rain kept talking. Fine needles now, bright enough to catch the bad promises bleeding down from the neon. The typhoon hadn't come yet, but the air already had that taste of wet metal, of ozone and mold, like the world was sweating in anticipation.
Iris sprawled on her couch in Fortress Hill, one arm dangling, a violet ember glowing at the end of her fingers. The synthetic enchanted-leaf stick smoldered, curling sweet-metal smoke toward the taped window. She wasn't supposed to smoke inside — landlord's rule — but if the city was about to drown in the rain, he could write her an angry letter in the afterlife.
The TV muttered across the room with most recent weather prediction. Not meteorologists. Hong Kong had retired them years ago, when satellites kept glitching out on storm-fronts. Now it was monks — meteoprophets, robes tucked neat, heads shaved to shining domes, standing in front of a glowing weather map. Their voices rolled like tidewater, chanting in Cantonese as they dragged calligraphy brushes across digital charts, drawing hexagrams that pulsed with storm-light.
"Signal will rise to Black before dawn," intoned the eldest monk. His voice rasped like old incense ash. "Ferries cease, flights grounded. Flood tides above the Temple Steps. This dragon's wrath comes unavoidable, and it will not be merciful."
Another monk rattled a string of carved beads. "Even the feng shui lions should be chained. Their jaws may snap loose in this wind."
Iris exhaled plume of white smoke towards the ceiling and clicked the set off with her toe. The screen died in a hiss.
"Merciful my ass," she muttered.
Her flat was already taped tight. Windows crisscrossed. Candles lined up in a neat army on the shelf. Couple of bottles of Japanese gin sweated on the counter. The fridge held cold noodles and a suspicious amount of beer. She was prepared, in the lazy, resigned way of someone who'd lived through five typhoon seasons in the city. Prepared enough that she could laugh at meteoprophets reading storm omens off whale bones.
What she hadn't prepared for was the boredom.
She thought about knocking on her neighbor's door. Auntie played mahjong with lethal precision and a voice that could peel paint off walls. Better to lose a few hundred to her than sit here counting raindrops. Or maybe baccarat. She'd been on a baccarat kick recently, the kind that left the whole stairwell echoing with cheers or curses. Either way, it would beat listening to prophets rehearse doomsday.
Iris sighed, ground the ember out in the ashtray, and leaned back. Her little fan ticked in the corner, clicking like a dying metronome. The rain outside thickened, tapping against the glass in impatient fingers.
Her comm buzzed.
She frowned. Unknown number. No one called her anymore except her neighbor about noise or Cho when he was drunk.
She thumbed it on. "Yeah?"
A beat of silence, then a voice she hadn't heard in months. Gravelly, warm, threaded with apology.
"Iris."
She sat up straight. "Cho?"
The old man cleared his throat. "Aiya, sorry to bother. I know it's late. I know you don't owe me."
"Damn right I don't. What the hell do you want?" She swung her legs off the couch, already bracing. Cho never called unless it was urgent even in the days she was working for him.
He hesitated. She could hear the rain through his end too, a distant hiss. "I need a courier. Just this once. Kowloon Arcology to Lantau Monastery. It's urgent."
Iris barked a laugh. "You're insane. Did you miss the monks? Whole city's shutting down. Bridges closing, ferries docked, even your precious drones grounded."
"I know, I know." His voice rasped harder now, like a lighter refusing flame. "That's why I am asking you. If I don't deliver this, I lose more than money. I lose face. It isn't just clients, Iris. The kind of people watching this package... they don't forgive delays. Not cops, not gangs. Bigger."
"So you came crawling back?"
"I need you, Iris. You're the only one who can."
She leaned against the taped window, watching rain streak violet neon down the glass. "Cho, you laid us all off six months ago. Drones, teleport circles, remember? You don't have couriers anymore. You made sure of that."
"I regret it every day," he said softly. "But this—this isn't for drones. This isn't for circles. They can't cross wards, they can't cross eyes. You can."
That stung more than it should. He wasn't wrong.
"Cho, the weather's about to go biblical," she said. "I like living, thanks."
"I'll pay triple."
She snorted. "Triple's not enough for drowning, laa."
"Five." His voice cracked a little. "Please. You save me, you save my name. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't life and death."
She rolled her eyes, but her throat felt tight. Cho had been fair when he cut her loose. Paid severance, bought her a bottle of Suntory, hugged her like a daughter. She'd never held a grudge. But she hadn't found work since. And rent didn't pay itself.
"Five times," she said. "And if I die, I'm haunting your stupid warehouse."
Cho exhaled, relief almost audible. "Deal."
The line clicked dead before she could change her mind.
Iris stared at the comm, then at the taped windows, then at the empty street two floors below. The rain was heavier now, puddles swallowing the curb. Black Rain by dawn, if the monks were right. Which meant she had a few hours to either be a hero or an idiot.
"Probably both," she muttered.
She grabbed her jacket.
Iris didn't move right away. Jacket in hand, she sat back on the couch and let the storm breathe against the window. The tape strips rattled faintly. The glass shivered as if it already knew it was out of its league.
The comm lay on the table, screen black. She lit another stick, violet ember flaring, and let the smoke coil up to the ceiling. The taste was sweet-metal, like licking copper wire. Comfort. Ritual. The opposite of adrenaline.
"Five times," she said to no one, smoke curling out of her mouth. "Only a fool says no."
Her music rig kicked in on the shelf, automatic — the timer she'd set for insomnia nights. Mongolian throat singing braided into 2038 basslines, a pulse like the world had two hearts. The sound filled the flat, buzzing against the taped windows, vibrating the whisky glass.
She finished the stick, stubbed it out, and pulled her boots on. Heavy, steel-toed, black leather polished by rain more than wax. She zipped her jacket halfway, tossed a scarf around her neck, and checked her keys. Every courier checked their keys twice; habit, superstition, same thing.
The hallway outside was dim, only the emergency lights on. Neighbors had sealed their doors with charms and red tape, joss ash curling under thresholds. Someone had chalked a rune by the stairwell that was already smudged by damp. Iris sidestepped it, muttering, "Nice try," under her breath.
On the landing, she paused. The lion-dog charm nailed above the stairwell door was askew, incense ash piled at its feet. She straightened it with two fingers, more habit than belief, then rubbed the ash on her jeans. The little motions that kept you alive — or at least made you think so.
The stairwell smelled of mold and old soup. Her boots echoed down the concrete steps, muffled by rain through the open grilles. Outside, Fortress Hill was empty. The trams sat dead in their rails, hulks dripping water. Their bells had been tied with red ribbons to keep ghosts from ringing them during storms.
She breathed it in. The quiet. The storm-hum. The way the city's heart paused between beats. It made her skin buzz.
Her garage was half-basement, half-shrine. Oil stains dark on concrete. Tools hung like talismans. The tarp in the far corner looked like a corpse under its sheet. She pulled it back and there was her bike — sleek predator, black-chrome bodywork gleaming under fluorescent light. Even at rest, it hummed faintly, like a caged thing dreaming of open road.
She crouched, ran a hand along the fairing. Cold, smooth, rain-dust on the seat. She hadn't ridden in weeks. Work had dried up with the drones, and joyrides were expensive when rent came first.
"Still beautiful," she whispered.
She pulled her gloves from the pegboard, tugged them on. The leather creaked. Helmet last — black visor, scratched at the edges, faint sticker peeling on the back: 八 for luck, faded to a ghost.
The bike growled awake under her thumb. The sound rolled low and steady, filling the garage. She felt it in her ribs, the way she always did. A second heartbeat, more honest than her own.
Outside, the rain hit harder. Puddles splashed purple neon, streetlights smeared into watercolor. She eased the bike out, tires hissing. The street was hers alone.
She checked her mirrors. Nothing. Not even a ghost. Just a garage wall behind her.
"Alright, girl," she said, visor down. "Let's see if we can outrun a dragon."
She throttled forward, into rain and empty road.