The city didn't chase her home.
For once it looked past her. Drizzle thinned to a skin on the road, more the harbor's breath than rain. Pavement steamed under sodium lamps; the mist cut headlights into pale fans. Fortress Hill rose ahead, hunched against dawn, concrete ribs slick like a carcass drying on the pier.
She throttled back. No sirens. No drones that wanted anything. No hum of omenpaths opening. Pure bliss.
Central slid by hungover. Shrines hissed incense into wet air. Even this late trams lumbered through, bells like tired cattle. AR signage pulsed, glitched at her aura, tried to show FIRE OX: BEWARE STRANGERS, but thought better of it.
Wan Chai deserved noise and gave none. Lucky Hotpot sign blinked L CK into the dawn before dying. Karaoke shutters rattled in the wind as she passed by. Somewhere above, an auntie cursed the storm as she dumped water down a gutter.
The 7-Eleven glowed too bright, AR chirping FORTUNE DRAW WITH EVERY PURCHASE while the real talisman sagged with rain. Hong Kong understood irony even when the universe didn't.
She cut the engine, rolled to the curb. The door sighed open as she pushed it, stepping into cold, air-conditioned market, smelling of plastic and old curry fish balls. The clerk didn't look up, AR drama streaming across his cheekbones. Iris grabbed two foil packs of cat food—tuna, chicken, she refused to let fate decide—then swung to the freezer. Steam fogged the glass. She slid a melon bar out of the frost and felt the cartoon fruit grin at her like it had outlived better empires.
At the counter, the clerk's gaze hiccupped over her face—half-second of nausea everyone wore near her weather—then flattened. He scanned, bagged, kept his dignity. The register coughed an AR receipt and produced a wrong screen instead: Your household will grow this year.
She snorted. "Not a chance." Clerk didn't look up.
Outside, the drizzle had softened into mist, tram rails glinting faint under the first smear of daylight. She tore the wrapper off the melon bar with her teeth, green ice already sweating onto her fingers. Sweet, cold, fluorescent — the taste of every late night she'd ever survived in this city. She ate it in three neat bites, sucking juice from the stick until only wood was left. Then she swung onto the bike again, helmet down, bag hooked at her wrist, and let the machine carry her the last few blocks uphill.
Her building leaned in on itself like an old drunk — concrete patchwork stitched with bamboo cages full of laundry that would never dry. Red talismans fluttered limp on the stairwell door, half-torn by storm winds. She pushed through, boots echoing on wet cement, carrying cat food and the last ghost of melon sweetness on her tongue.The door stuck on its frame as always. She shoved it open with a hip, groceries bumping her thigh, helmet dangling from two fingers. The smell of plaster and damp tape hit first, followed by the faint tang of gin still clinging to the counter from last night. The storm had dried but left its ghost behind in the walls.
The flat was one room pretending to be three: kitchen corner, couch, taped window. Laundry pole across the ceiling still dripping. Her boots scuffed water into grooves that had never been level.She set the bag on the counter. Plastic crackled too loud in the quiet. A moth flapped against the taped window, desperate to believe in a neon glow that was already out.Iris unzipped the backpack. The kitten spilled out like poured ink, landing on the counter with claws that clattered. Its eyes caught the lamp glow, violet, faint and steady.
"Yeah, yeah, dinner's coming." She ripped the foil pack open with her teeth, dumped tuna chunks into the chipped bowl. The smell filled the flat sharp and sour. The kitten dove in, tail twitching like a metronome, eating as though the world was timed.Iris leaned on the counter, pulled the bottle down, poured gin into the cracked glass. The liquid sat transperent and thick, beads crawling down the side in the damp. She lit a stick, ember violet, smoke curling metallic-sweet to the ceiling. First sip, first drag — body unclenching slow.
She didn't even take a second sip before kitten detonated, releasing all pent-up energy at once.
Couch. Counter. Curtain rod. A black streak slamming through furniture. The lamp dimmed, flared, sparks snapped from whiskers when it sneezed.
"You redecorate, you pay rent," Iris said. Didn't move.
Outside noise bled in through tape: tram bells clanging out of step, monks chanting tiredly, aunties yelling at lintels. The city didn't know how to shut up.
The kitten leapt at the taped window, claws screeching, moth trapped outside flapping at neon that was already dead. It bounced, tumbled, went back for the couch, shadow lagging a beat before catching up.
Iris didn't flinch. She took another sip."You're a menace," she said flatly.
The kitten finally collapsed sideways across her lap, storm engine purring itself to sleep. Violet sparks flickered faint at its whiskers and dimmed with each breath.
Iris stroked its skull once. "Done? Don't puke on me."
She leaned back, glass sweating in her hand. Smoke curled violet against taped glass. Outside, dumpling stalls cursed power cuts, monks slapped red paint onto pylons, trams dragged themselves uphill.
Iris leaned back, let the gin sweat into her palm, smoke curling violet against the taped glass. Tram bells muttered uphill. Aunties cursed bad ward-paint down the slope. The city never slept; it only pretended.
Then the taped window shivered.
Not storm, not tram. A vibration under the glass, faint as the aftershock of a drum.
She frowned, tapped ash into the tray. Across the street, two monks were repainting pylons. Their brushes didn't just lay vermilion — they traced characters wider than usual, heavy strokes that bled into each other. She caught a phrase before the drizzle smeared it: Resilience.
The kitten stirred, eyes half-opening. Its tail twitched like it had heard the word too.
"Festival season already?" she muttered. "City barely survived the last one."
The monks' chant carried up the slope, low and tired. Someone below shouted about banners, scaffolds creaked, AR adverts blinked festival dates over a noodle shop shutter.
The kitten yawned, unimpressed, and burrowed into her lap. Iris drained the glass, smirk sharp in the taped glow.
Outside, the city was already hammering its stages together.