The morning sun slanted through the narrow alleys of Mong Kok, spilling golden light across wet cobblestones still slick from the last cleansing of the night market. Vendors were rolling out carts, hawking steaming buns and egg waffles to sleepy commuters. Schoolchildren in wrinkled uniforms hurried past, lunch tins swinging, voices rising in bursts of laughter.
Alexander walked among them, small in stature but marching with an odd, practiced calm, his satchel heavier than it should have been. Behind his eyes ticked calculations: yesterday's silver coins merged with last week's watch profits, pooled with candy margins. Nearly eighty dollars now. A child's fortune, dangerously visible if not managed properly.
His father's suspicion from the night before still clung like a shadow. One wrong slip, an exposed sock full of coins, and the fragile scaffolding he had built would collapse.
At school, he allowed himself to stumble once in arithmetic, scratching his head like a confused boy. "I don't get it," he muttered loud enough for the teacher to scold him lightly. His classmates snickered.
Perfect.
A clever boy drew attention. But an average boy? He disappeared in the crowd like smoke.
During lunch, when Ming eagerly brought him the day's earnings from candy sales, Alexander waved him off. "Don't hand me coins here. Too obvious. Buy pencils from the stationery shop and bring me the receipt. I'll repay you at home. Keep my share in your drawer."
Ming blinked. "But… why? Isn't faster to give money?"
Alexander leaned in, his voice cold with warning. "You want everyone whispering I'm the boss? You want teachers to ask questions? No. We hide. We act like nothing."
Ming nodded, chastened.
This was the first layer of his mask: proficiency in ordinary.
After school, instead of rushing home, Alexander slipped into a side street lined with neon pawn signs—gold characters buzzing faintly even in daylight. He entered a different shop this time, not wanting to appear too familiar in only one.
He placed another cheap trinket—a toy car, pawned for five dollars—then left. He didn't care for the rate; what mattered was the note.
Pawn tickets themselves could circulate as money. He had remembered reading about it in his old life—how poorer families in Hong Kong often treated pawn slips like cash, handing them off, trading them, confident the goods remained safe until redemption.
He tucked the yellow slip carefully behind his math workbook. To the world, it was paper. To him, it was liquid value hiding in plain sight.
Invisible money—that was the shield he needed.
That evening, his mother served bowls of stir-fried bitter melon and rice. His father ate silently, exhaustion etched into his shoulders, the tailoring work never-ending.
Alexander spooned rice casually, then piped up: "Ma… teacher said I good at helping classmates with copying homework. They said I could maybe earn lunch money that way. Is that okay?"
His mother chuckled, brushing off sweat from her brow. "Better than running wild in the street. At least some good use!"
His father grunted. "Hmm. Study well, earn proper job one day. Don't be like rascals thinking they are smarter than bosses."
Alexander bowed his head, his mask firmly in place. From now on, if coins appeared, there was his alibi. Tutoring, homework, errands. Perfectly plausible.
Two days later, rain hammered the rooftops as boys huddled under the banyan tree during recess. Ming arrived pale-faced.
"Ah Lek, problem! Teacher saw me with coins. She asked why I carrying so much. I lied… but I think she suspects."
Alexander's mind raced. Exposure at this stage could destroy everything.
He took a breath, lowering his voice. "Good. Tomorrow, buy sweets for her daughter. Give it as gift—say you wanted to thank her for helping with lessons. If she believes that, suspicion becomes trust."
Ming hesitated. "But isn't… lying?"
Alexander's voice hardened. "It's survival. Do it."
The next day, Ming returned red-faced but triumphant. "She smiled. Said I'm thoughtful. Even gave me an apple. She doesn't suspect anymore!"
Alexander leaned back against the wall, relief flooding his chest. Another law confirmed: never confront suspicion directly. Redirect it. Turn enemies into allies.
That night, he wrote in his journal with slow, deliberate strokes:
Mask essential. Must appear harmless, average, obedient.
Alibi: Homework tutor = perfect cover. Always repeat.
Rule: If suspicion arises, repay with kindness. Distract with favors. Turn watchers blind through gratitude.
He tapped the pencil, then added one more:
Empire built in shadows. Sunlight burns too soon.
Near midnight, restless, he stepped onto the balcony. Rain had cleared, leaving Victoria Harbour shimmering under moonlight. Faint neon lights glowed across the Island, reflected in rippling water like fragments of the future.
To anyone else, Hong Kong was still just a colonial outpost—crowded tenements, street markets, and a port buzzing with freight. But Alexander saw layers invisible to them: the skyline that would climb to the heavens in his lifetime, the trading floors that would pulse with billions, the city's eventual role as East's global capital.
And if his mask held, if his coins multiplied unseen, he would not ride its tides blindly this time. He would guide them.
His lips curled into the faintest smile.
"Let them see a boy too busy with homework. Let them laugh. Behind the mask, I will prepare the storm."
The harbor lights winked back, as if in silent pact.