The storm hadn't come yet, but Hong Kong already felt drowned.Windows taped into white X's, neon flickering like it was ashamed to still be on, wet markets packed up early as if retreating from a lost battle. The city held its breath. Only the rain kept whispering — fine needles bright enough to catch the bad promises bleeding down from the signs.
On her couch, Iris Lau flicked ash at the taped window. The synthetic leaf-stick smoldered sweet-metal smoke toward the taped glass. She wasn't supposed to smoke indoors — landlord's rule — but if the city was about to sink, he could scold her in the afterlife.
Her comm buzzed. Unknown number.
No one called her anymore except Auntie about mahjong.
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.