The Ritz's garage spat her out into dawn that hadn't decided if it was silver or just wet. Iris pulled the visor down, thumbed the throttle, and let the machine hum against her bones. Muscles ached, mouth tasted of metal, but her chest was lit with something else — a bright, stupid rush that she hadn't felt in months.
She'd beaten sunrise. Delivered a mob boss's daughter with seconds to spare. Outran half the city.
And all she could think was: the kitten's probably starving.
"Alright, kid," she muttered into her helmet, grin tugging hard. "Mama's on her way."
Central blurred past, towers washed in ward-paint and smug glass. Monks leaned off scaffolds to repaint sigils that still dripped vermilion, incense cans smoking under traffic lights. A tram clanged its bell half-heartedly, sparks spitting from tired rails. The city was still bandaged, but alive.
Iris darted through it fast, too fast, impatient. Her head kept flicking east, toward Fortress Hill. Toward her flat. Toward the hungry dragon-fluff probably clawing her sofa in protest.
She cut up onto Connaught flyover — and the world shifted.
Blue-red strobes bled against the rain-slick asphalt. A cruiser parked sideways across two lanes. Patrol drones hovered overhead, optics steady. Not stuttering, not blinking away. Focused.
Her stomach dropped.
"Not tonight," she hissed, rolling the throttle down. "Come on. Just five more minutes."
The cruiser's lights barked again. The officer in body armor stepped out, visor up. Rain slicked his hair to one side, jaw sharp under tired eyes. He didn't look away like people usually did. Didn't flinch. Just raised a hand, palm steady: stop.
Iris cursed and braked, tires hissing. Helmet off. Play it light. Always worked before.
"Morning, officer," she called sweet. "Or is it still night? Hard to tell when you've been babysitting traffic all storm."
"License," he said flat. His Cantonese clipped, precise. No smile.
She dug it out, passed it over with two fingers. "What's the fine for making your day interesting?"
He glanced at the card, at her, at the dripping bike. His expression didn't shift. Routine. Professional.
Then the cruiser's terminal chirped. A low red pulse. ALERT: Possible Match – Lantau Bridge Incident 0430hrs. Vehicle profile: Black Bike. Rider: Unknown. Status: Suspected Evasion. Detain for Questioning.
The officer — Kwan, his badge said — looked at the screen. Then back at her. Something in his stance tightened.
"Step off the bike, Miss Lau."
Her grin faltered. "Really? For doing seventy in a forty?"
"Now." His tone left no oxygen.
She swung her leg slow, boots splashing down. "You know I've got somewhere to be, right? Little guy at home. Hungry. Screams like a banshee if I'm late."
Kwan's cuffs clicked open. He didn't waver. "You're being detained in connection with an incident on Lantau Bridge last night."
Her laugh came sharp and brittle. "Traffic incident? Cute. You mean the ghost-rider who made your boys eat asphalt?"
"You admit it then."
"I admit nothing," she snapped, eyes bright with defiance. "Except maybe your scanner needs glasses."
The cuffs bit cold around her wrists. She sighed.
Kwan guided her toward the cruiser, rain drumming steady on asphalt. Patrol drones circled like curious gulls. The city stirred around them, trams starting, markets waking, monks repainting wards one brushstroke at a time.
"Careful with the bike. It's worth more than your van." She muttered before being shoved in the cruiser's backseat, smelling like wet nylon and old joss ash. Iris slouched as far as cuffs let her, helmet dumped on the seat beside her. Outside, rain smeared the harbor's edge into gray watercolor.
The constable driving kept glancing at the mirror, like he couldn't figure out why the scanners fritzed when she got in. Kwan didn't bother. He just sat up front, steady, like traffic noise was enough conversation.
The station basement hummed with tired fluorescents. Puddles tracked by boots. Coffee steamed in paper cups lined along a desk where two officers argued over hexagram readouts. Everything smelled of rain dragged inside.
Two uniforms wrestled another detainee past them — a woman with long dark hair plastered wet against her face, wrists bound in steel and plastic both. She moved like weight training, every step too controlled, as if she was holding something back. One cop shoved her shoulder, muttering "psycho vet" under his breath. Her hands twitched once in the cuffs, fingers splaying wider than human, a click of hidden joints before she forced them shut again. Nobody met her eyes. Iris didn't either. She had her own problems.
Kwan parked her on a steel bench opposite a bulletin board of wanted faces and traffic camera stills. He unhooked the cuffs with the kind of care that said he wasn't worried if she bolted — either because she wouldn't, or because he'd catch her again anyway.
"Wait here," he said.
Iris flexed her wrists, scowled. "Not like I've got dinner plans or anything."
Across the room, a flatscreen kept playing news reels - APEX denying responsibility for "unfortunate incidents," an ad for toothpaste, and — what made her throat tighten — shaky footage of two neon-smeared superbikes carving the Connaught flyover. Cameras caught only blurs and streaks, but the sound was clear: engines howling, cops eating distance behind them.
The ticker crawled: "Lotus-Black Crew humiliates pursuit units again. Public urged to avoid street racing areas."
Kwan reappeared, paper cup in one hand, her license in the other. He set both on the ledge in front of her.
"You stand out," he said.
Iris arched a brow. "For existing?"
"For riding in the rain. Everyone else parks their machines when the roads are slick and the wards are still humming. You don't. Makes you interesting." He slid her license back across. Didn't let go until she tugged it.
She twirled it between her fingers, voice dry. "What is this, compliment hour?"
"No. This is me thinking out loud." He nodded toward the screen. The blurred bikes streaking neon. "You heard of them?"
"Who hasn't?" Iris leaned back against cold wall, pretending boredom. "Foreign crew. Think they own the city. Make your boys chase tails."
Kwan sipped his coffee, eyes on her. "They don't show up unless they think the odds are beautiful. They want to humiliate us on record. They wait for bait worth chasing."
She barked a laugh. "And you're looking at me like I just got promoted to worm-on-a-hook."
He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth tilted, just once. "Smart."
"Sorry, no." She held up both hands. "You've got the wrong girl. I don't race tourists. I cheat them at mahjong. Whole different sport."
Kwan let the silence hang. Only the buzz of fluorescents and the cough of the coffee machine filled it. Finally he said: "Two conditions. You provoke them. You keep them busy long enough for us to catch what we need on record. Then you walk out of here free. License intact. No charges. No ghost-rider profile hanging over your head."
"And the second?" she asked warily.
His gaze was steady, unreadable. "Dinner. With me."
For a beat the room froze. Then Iris barked a laugh sharp enough to bounce off the bulletin board. "That's your price? You must be starving worse than my cat."
Kwan didn't flinch. "You in or not?"
Iris leaned back, chains of fatigue and adrenaline tugging at her ribs. The kitten's hungry yowl echoed in her head like a phantom. If she stayed here, the cat went unfed. If she agreed, at least she'd be back on the road, moving, closer to home.
She grinned crooked, sharp enough to cut. "Fine, Inspector. I'll dance with your tourists. But don't get your hopes up about dessert."