The police station spat her out into a dawn that still smelled of incense ash and motor oil. The rain had finally given up, but the city still bled it—gutters coughing brown water, scaffolds glistening, asphalt slick like lacquer. Iris swung onto the bike with wrists still hot from the cuffs.
Kwan hadn't smiled when he let her go. Just that flat stare, heavy as a warrant. He didn't look like a man who argued with reports—he looked like a man who wrote them, and made sure they read like scripture.
Provoke them, then dinner.
She rolled her eyes under the visor. "Dinner, my ass."
The throttle answered instead. Fortress Hill rose ahead, concrete stacked and dripping, balconies hung with laundry that would never dry. The air tasted of rust and exhaust, still damp from the storm. She threaded the last of the tramlines, tires hissing over puddles, impatience buzzing in her jaw.
The flat door stuck on its swollen frame. She shoved it open with a curse. Inside smelled of gin, plaster, and damp tape. The storm had gnawed at the building all night; its breath still lingered in the concrete.
The kitten was waiting by the door, tail flicking like a metronome. Two violet eyes glowed faint in the dim, wide and accusing.
"Yeah, yeah," Iris said, kicking the door shut behind her. "Mama's late. Arrested, interrogated, almost booked for traffic homicide. You care? No—you just want fishies."
The yowl that answered was so sharp she almost laughed. She dumped her jacket on a chair, tore open the kibble tin, and filled the chipped bowl. The kitten pounced like a starving god in miniature, jaws working fast, purr so loud the taped window rattled.
Iris leaned against the counter, lit a stick. Violet ember glowed, smoke curling sweet-metallic into the stale flat. She watched the kitten inhale food like it hadn't eaten in years. Fur bristled as it sneezed, sparks spitting faint between its whiskers. The bulb above the counter flickered in sympathy.
Her reflection in the taped window caught her eye. Jacket scuffed, hair plastered, skin pale under bad neon. She looked like what she was: a courier who'd bitten off too much. That wouldn't bait the Lotus-Black crew.
Foreign brats on imported bikes didn't want to humiliate some drowned rat. They wanted to outshine their own reflections.
She ground the ember out, flicked the ash. Strode to the closet. Dug out armor she hadn't worn in years. White leather riding suit, a shade too clean for these streets. Black cropped jacket with storm-scars burned into the seams. Helmet polished until neon would bleed across its curve. She tugged her hair back sharp, zipped the jacket half-high, and stared at herself in the cracked mirror.
Not courier. Not errand girl. Something they'd want to chase.
Her grin came quick and dangerous. "Let's see if they like their tourist tax."
The kitten finished the bowl, licked its whiskers, and padded over with arrogant entitlement.
She unzipped the pack just enough to shove in her gloves—
And the damn thing wriggled straight inside like it had been waiting.
"No. Not this time." She yanked the flap half-closed, gave the canvas a sharp shake. The kitten dug in harder, tail lashing, claws catching fabric with stubborn little scritches.
Iris groaned through her teeth. "You scratch the lining, I'm feeding you to the monks."
Two violet eyes blinked up at her, smug as unpaid rent.
She sighed, slung the pack onto her shoulders. Warm weight pressed against her spine. She didn't admit—not even to herself—that it felt better having him there.
She rolled the bike out of the garage. The city above still dripped, storm wounds stitched in bamboo and tarp. Trams groaned awake, bells cracked and weary. Monks in orange slickers repainted sigils on tram pylons, brushes slapping vermilion onto rusting steel. Paper charms flapped damp in the wind, ink running like blood.
One monk straightened as she passed, brush raised. His eyes followed the bike too long, as if he could smell the kitten through the canvas. Iris throttled harder, leaving his gaze in the rain-smudged mirror.
She paused at a light that never turned green, lit another stick. One draw, one exhale, smoke glowing violet against the dawn. She flicked it away, dropped the visor, and grinned into the dark.
"Alright, kitty. Let's go cheat some tourists."
The bike screamed forward, hissing over slick asphalt, and the harbor swallowed her into its neon throat.
The Lotus-Black crew were exactly where the whispers said: Connaught flyover, eastbound lanes half-blocked by their machines. Engines growled low, lights smeared through dawn mist.
Six of them. Bikes like chrome beasts dipped in neon—gold undercarriage, plasma-blue rims, fairings etched with half-assed wards they probably couldn't even read. Their helmets mirrored, their jackets stitched with brand logos that had never set foot in Hong Kong. Rich kids from somewhere else, or mercs pretending to be rich kids. Didn't matter. They weren't local.
Iris eased onto the ramp, white leather catching the last of the storm-pale light. Her visor mirrored the city back at them. The bike purred steady under her, backpack warm against her shoulders.
The crew clocked her immediately. One nudged another, laughed, pointed like she'd stumbled into the wrong nightclub. Neon spat off their fairings as they leaned in, predator-casual, sure she was easy meat.
She rolled slow into their circle, thumbed the kill switch, and let silence hang half a beat too long. Then she cracked the visor.
"Well look at this. Biker cosplay night? Boys are playing Jorge Martin?" She leaned a little further, chin cocked. "Wait—don't tell me those are Comanch? Laa, I thought tuk-tuks had more horsepower."
Before their helmets even tilted, she dug into her jacket, pulled a folded hundred, and flicked it against the nearest wheel. The note clung wet to the rim.
"Do you wanna play rabbit?" she said. "That's how you play rabbit. Hundred bucks to whoever outruns me. One plus one. Get it?"
The circle froze. For half a breath, all you could hear was the tick of cooling engines. Their laughter stalled in their throats, helmets angling at each other like they weren't sure who'd move first.
Then the noise came back sharp, echoing off the flyover. Forced this time, covering the beat she'd stolen.
One rider leaned forward on his bars, visor reflecting her grin. "We don't need your petty cash, girl."
Iris tilted her head, grin going crooked. "Oh, I said hundred 'cause I'd feel bad taking more off tourists. But let's be real—tourist who didn't get cheated never really visited Hong Kong."
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then six bikes screamed awake, ward-etchings flaring, exhausts snarling.
The kitten shifted in the backpack, claws scritching fabric once—a restless little pam. Iris's spine straightened. She didn't need the reminder, but it curled electricity down her nerves all the same.
Her bike snarled, bit concrete, and tore forward.
The Lotus-Black crew lunged after her, neon tails streaming like angry comets.
Iris only laughed into the helmet, sharp and quick, and fed the machine its hunger.
"Come on then, tourists. Time to pay the tax."