Iris ducked under the tarp awning of the dumpling stall. Steam fogged the plastic sides, smelled of garlic and soy, wrapped the alley in a pocket of warmth. Rain roared just beyond the tarp, a gray wall that made the whole city sound like it was drowning.
Uncle was there, apron damp, cigarette welded to the corner of his mouth. The kind of man who looked like he'd been running the stall since before Hong Kong had electricity, and would still be there if the harbor boiled away.
"You again," he said, not surprised. His lighter clicked twice before sparking. The flame glowed greenish, oily. Enchanted.
"Me again," Iris said. She slid onto a plastic stool that wobbled under her weight. "Give me pork. Extra chili."
He grunted, turned to his bubbling pot. The enchanted flame beneath hissed, steady against the storm. Above him the single lightbulb in its wire cage flickered, buzzing in protest.
"Told you," a regular muttered from two stools down, umbrella dripping at his feet. "That spell-fire screws your wiring. Get proper gas like everyone else."
Uncle spat smoke sideways. "Gas is double price. Spell-fire burns clean, burns cheap. Once in a while bulb dies—so what? Dumplings still cook."
"Until you fry yourself," the man said.
"Until then," Uncle said, shrugging. He fished dumplings out with his slotted spoon, steam curling around his wrist.
Iris smirked, elbows on counter. "Magic versus tech. City's favorite boxing match."
Uncle jabbed at the pot with his spoon. "Not boxing. Wrong metaphor. Put a bird in a cage with a snake. They don't fight every second, but one day—" He snapped the spoon up sharp, spraying broth. "One day, bite."
The bulb above them buzzed again, flared, then went dead. The enchanted flame under the pot burned on, steady, smug.
Customers laughed. Uncle cursed, thumped the cage with his spoon. "See?" He struck the bulb's base with his lighter until it grudgingly glowed again, weak as an old man's eye.
Iris chewed her bottom lip, thinking of her bike coughing and bucking on the jungle road, the way the wards had hummed against her teeth. For a second the memory pressed hard, too clear. She shook it off.
"Yeah," she said. "But come on. Bike stalling in the rain isn't sorcery. It's just… wires wet. Circuits cranky."
Uncle set a plate in front of her. Steam rose. Pork, garlic, chili oil bleeding red around the edges. "Keep telling yourself."
She snapped her chopsticks apart, shoveled the first dumpling whole into her mouth. Tongue burned, eyes watered, perfect. The kitten poked its head out of her jacket at the steam, whiskers twitching like antennae.
Uncle chuckled. "Good taste." He dropped a scrap into a saucer, set it on the counter. The kitten pounced, paws too big for its body, tail flicking. Its shadow lagged behind, then caught up. No one seemed to notice.
Overhead, the TV bolted to the awning corner played muted news highlights. Footage of the monks on the temple roof. The anchor's smile too bright as she credited the ritual for calming the storm. A scroll at the bottom crawled: Dragon Protocol deactivated. Citizens may resume travel.
Then, softer font, slower crawl: APEX denies involvement in missing specimen. Monastic authorities request vigilance for unusual animals.
The regular slurped soup loud enough to drown the TV. "I swear I saw its head over the harbor. Whole sky bent wrong."
"Storm hallucination," another muttered, rubbing his temples.
"Hallucinate this," the first said, holding up his dripping sleeve. "Dragon spat the rain on me, laa."
Uncle snorted. "Storm, dragon—still rain. Still dumplings."
Iris grinned around her chopsticks. "Wisdom of the ages."
Uncle shrugged again, smoke drifting out his nose. "Eat fast. Rain doesn't wait for you."
She did. Dumpling after dumpling, broth hot enough to scald. Vinegar sharp on her tongue, chili biting the back of her throat. The kitten purred against her ribs, belly full, shadow twitching in sync with the bulb's flicker.
The news crawl shifted again: APEX TOWER OFFERS SUBSTANTIAL REWARD FOR RETURN OF CLASSIFIED SPECIMEN.
A man two stools down let out a low whistle. "That's a year's wages," he muttered, already thumbing his comm under the counter. Another regular swatted his hand half-joking, half not. The uncle just kept fishing dumplings, smoke curling out his nose like he didn't hear.
Iris froze mid-bite, dumpling half-raised. Jaw set, then loosened. She finished it anyway, chewing slow. "Figures," she muttered. "Rain never stops, and neither do corps."
She drained her broth, slapped bills damp with rain on the counter. Uncle didn't bother counting, just slid them under a chipped saucer.
The tarp flapped as she pushed out. Rain hammered the alley, neon bleeding in every puddle. The kitten burrowed deeper into her jacket, warm against her chest, purr steady. Behind her, Uncle cursed again as the bulb died, customers laughing like it was part of the service.
Iris pulled her hood up. The city was still rinsing itself clean. Didn't matter. Dirt always ran back in with the tide.
She lit a stick, violet ember glowing against the wet night. Drew once, slow, and let the smoke curl upward. "Classified specimen," she said to the kitten. "Guess that's you."
It purred louder. The rain swallowed her footsteps.