Morning never came. The storm held the sky bruise-black, tape-crossed panes rattling with every gust. Rain hammered, then paused, then hammered again, like a debt collector deciding which door to kick. Somewhere outside, scaffolding clanged like a ship in bad seas. The city was awake but pinned, too tired to fight back.
Iris sprawled on the couch, jacket half-off, smoke curling metallic-sweet into corners already thick with ghosts of old smokes. The whisky glass sweated a pale ring into wood. The kitten claimed her lap, absurdly warm, purring steady. Each time it pressed a paw into her ribs, the lamp above the sink dimmed, then pretended it hadn't.
The TV muttered alive on its own. Monks on a temple roof, robes plastered, copper coils humming blue. AR pressure charts bloomed and collapsed over them like luminous flowers, a mess of colors nobody without training could parse. The crawl at the bottom read: Dragon Protocol remains active under Black Signal. Citizens are urged to remain sheltered.
Iris dragged slow on her stick, tasted metal and spice, glanced at the taped panes. Lightning ripped a seam in the sky; for an instant she saw coils sliding through cloud. Not rain, not turbulence—something alive, heavy enough to bend weather like a curtain. The kitten purred louder. The lamp blinked.
"I need better alcohol," she muttered.
Onscreen, the eldest monk lifted a bowl black with ash-sludge. He flung it upward. Wind snatched it vertical, slapping against something invisible. Sparks jittered across empty air. A younger monk leaned into gale, voice cracking: The mother cries for her child. She will not calm until the baby is returned.
The ember slipped from her stick. Hissed dead on tile.
Her pulse jumped. She stared at the TV. Then down.
The kitten kneading her lap. Purple eyes open now. Whiskers fizzing static.
Her throat caught. "Baby. No."
The lamp guttered again.
She snatched her comm, thumbed Cho's number. It rang hollow, then cut. Tried again. Nothing. Dead dots pulsed, vanished. The storm was eating signal alive.
She slammed it down. "What did you give me?"
The storm leaned on the glass until the whole frame groaned. The kitten sneezed. Sparks snapped. It hopped off her lap and sat in the center of the floor like a boss waiting for excuses. Tail curled into a hook. Purr steady. Static ticking between whiskers.
Iris sighed, flicked the dead ember across the ashtray. "Fine. We'll try stupid."
The stairwell stank of drowned incense and plaster sweating rain. Door charms sagged red, some curled in like they regretted promises made too rashly. Ash clung to the steps. The lion-dog sticker on the landing had drooped; she pressed it flat with two fingers in pure reflex, before pushing on.
Roof door groaned, shoved back. Wind slapped in her face, rain came sideways, bending antennas, bowing bamboo poles into crooked prayers. Victoria Harbour had vanished, swallowed whole in the eye of the storm.
She stepped to the edge. Pulled the kitten out. Lifted it with both hands toward the roiling dark, resisting the urge to shout Simba.
Lightning sheared the clouds apart, as something huge lowered itself towards the tower's edge. Antlers slick with rain, whiskers trailing charged light, scales that took the city's neon and returned jade.
Its violet eyes, older than Hong Kong itself, found the kitten.
The animal in her hands wriggled once. Extended a paw, and—what a cosmic fool—tapped, tapped the dragon on its wet nose, unafraid.
"Of course you would do it," Iris whispered, unable to move.
The dragon tilted its head. Wind dropped out of the sky and rain fell vertical again. Thunderclap above her head dwindled into nothing, as if feeling shy all of a sudden. The dragon coiled back, disappearing into the cloud cover above the city. Iris clutched the kitten to her chest, felt its tiny heart beating like an engine on bad roads.
On the landing, the lion-dog sticker now hung straight, as if it had done all the hard work.
Back inside, the flat smelled of rain and faint sandalwood. She dropped the kitten on a towel. It shook each paw with theatrical disdain, then curled at her ankle, purring in time with the fading storm.
She poured some gin. Burned it down her throat like penance. Lit another stick. Violet ember flared and smoke crawled undecided into corners.
Rain outside had changed its voice. No more walls slamming the city flat. Just endless rinse, dishes under a tap.
She collapsed on the couch, jacket sliding to the floor. The kitten prowled the counter. Every bulb dimmed a shade. Wiring, she told herself. The building disagreed.
Her playlist woke itself. Throat-singing mixed with bass, a mountain trying on nightclub skin. The floorboards thrummed. So did her ribs. The kitten didn't even pay attention to the sudden roar. Instead it placed a paw in a water ring. The ring climbed its fur like mercury.
"No," Iris told it. "Not indoors."
The kitten blinked. Licked its paw. Didn't care.
She tipped her head back. The ceiling was cracked plaster, charm scraps fluttering with the draft, shadows shifting in sync with thunder that had no thunderclap. Her eyes burned. Loneliness smelled like smoke. She rubbed her knuckles into her nose until the sting dulled.
"Tomorrow," she muttered. "Temple lost-and-found. You're their problem."
The kitten purred louder, cathedral-small. Rain kept talking. Lights sulked. The city shifted in small ways, like a thing turning over in its sleep. The oven clock scrolled an omen instead of digits: WOODEN SNAKE: AVOID PROMISES. She didn't bother correcting it.
The rain hadn't stopped, only changed its mind. No more walls hammering the city flat. Just sheets steady and endless, the sound of a giant rinsing dishes.