The first sensation was the pain. It wasn't the sharp, screaming agony from last night, but a deep, bone-weary throbbing that had settled into his shoulder and ribs like a stubborn tenant. Every breath was a conscious effort, a negotiation with his own body. Sunlight, filtered dirty and yellow through the single grimy window, cut across the room and landed directly on Kai's face.
He'd been awake for hours, listening to the city come alive. The metallic screech of rolling security gates, the distant hum of traffic, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a washing machine in the apartment above. It was a symphony of cramped, vertical living. He'd lain there on the bottom bunk, staring at the stained mattress springs above him, trying to map the cracks in the ceiling plaster. Each one felt like a fracture in his own life.
Lok was still asleep in the top bunk, snoring softly, a picture of peaceful oblivion. The scent of the medicinal poultice from Old Man Teng clung to Kai's skin, a bitter, herbal reminder of the price of entry. He carefully sat up, the movement sending a fresh wave of protest from his shoulder. He looked at his hands. Clean. Too clean for a guy who was supposed to have been working manual labor in Shenzhen. He'd have to fix that. Get some grime ground under the nails, some calluses that weren't just from police-issue handguns.
His phone, a cheap, untraceable burner, vibrated once on the floor beside his bed. A single, coded text from a number he knew belonged to Inspector Chan, his handler.
*Weather report: Sunny. High pressure system moving in. Confirm you are dressed appropriately.*
The message was a standard check-in. 'Sunny' meant the operation was still green. 'High pressure' was a warning that police activity in the area might be increased. 'Dressed appropriately' was a question: Are you safe? Are you compromised?
Kai typed a quick, clumsy response with his left hand. *Jacket is a bit tight, but it fits. Going for a walk.*
It fits. The lie was becoming easier to tell. He put the phone away just as Lok stirred above him with a grunt and a stretch that made the whole bunk bed frame groan in complaint.
"Aiyah… my head," Lok moaned, swinging his legs down and dropping to the floor with a thud. He blinked, his eyes puffy with sleep, and then a wide grin split his face as he saw Kai. "Brother! You're alive! I thought maybe you died in the night and I was sleeping on a corpse."
"Not yet," Kai said, managing a weak smile.
Lok rummaged through a pile of clothes, pulling on a fresh, equally flashy tracksuit. "Come on. Get up. We have to see Mister Wong. The White Paper Fan. Sai Lo must have told him about you."
The name sent a different kind of chill through Kai. Mister Wong. The advisor. The brains. In the briefing files, Wong's photo had been accompanied by more red flags than a military parade. Extremely intelligent. Calculating. Paranoid. The biggest threat to any undercover operation within the Wo Shing. The muscle, like Sai Lo, you could handle with fists. The brains were the ones who could see the ghost you were pretending to be.
"What's he like?" Kai asked, keeping his tone casual as he pulled on his jacket, wincing as the leather brushed his tender shoulder.
Lok shrugged, but the gesture was nervous. "Smart. Quiet. He doesn't shout. He just… looks at you. And you feel like he's counting all the money you've ever cost him." He tossed Kai a piece of wrapped bread from the fridge. "Here. Breakfast. Don't throw up on him. It makes a bad impression."
Twenty minutes later, they were standing in the back room of a traditional tea house deep in the bowels of a Yau Ma Tei market. It was a world away from the chaotic, noisy energy of the mahjong parlour. Here, it was all quiet tension. The air was thick with the earthy scent of pu-erh tea. Mister Wong sat at a simple wooden table, a pristine porcelain tea set laid out before him. He was a slight man in his forties, with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his calm, unblinking eyes. He moved with a slow, deliberate economy, pouring hot water over the tiny cups with ritualistic precision.
Sai Lo was there too, a brooding mountain of silent power leaning against the wall, his massive arms crossed. He gave Kai a slight, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.
"So, you are Lok's childhood friend," Wong said without looking up. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it commanded the entire room. "Jin Kai. You made quite an entrance."
"I didn't plan on it, sir," Kai said, keeping his gaze lowered respectfully.
"The best entrances are often unplanned," Wong replied, finally looking up. His magnified eyes scanned Kai from head to toe, lingering on his posture, the way he held his injured arm. "Sai Lo says you have spirit. And a high tolerance for pain. Useful qualities." He took a sip of tea. "But spirit without direction is just noise. Pain tolerance without loyalty is just… masochism."
He gestured for Lok to pour tea for Kai. It was a test. Lok fumbled slightly, his hands shaking as he filled the small cup. Kai accepted it with his left hand, his right arm staying carefully still at his side. He brought the cup to his lips. The tea was bitter and complex.
"You cost the society two thousand dollars," Wong stated flatly.
Kai's blood ran cold. This was it. The debt was being called in already.
"The man you saved," Wong continued, "his debt was one thousand. You promised Sai Lo double. That is two thousand Hong Kong dollars that is not in our coffers. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Kai placed the teacup down carefully. He met Wong's gaze, not with defiance, but with a calculated humility. "I saw an asset that was about to be written off. I believed he could be motivated to repay more if given a second chance. I was betting on my own ability to withstand the collection process to secure a better return."
The room was silent save for the gentle bubbling of the hot water kettle. Wong's expression didn't change, but Kai saw a flicker of something—interest?—in his eyes. He had spoken Wong's language. Not the language of streets and loyalty, but the language of profit and loss.
"A businessman," Wong mused. He turned to Sai Lo. "You see, Sai Lo? Even the fighters are thinking about the bottom line now." He looked back at Kai. "Your bet is now your responsibility. You and Lok will collect five thousand dollars from the Golden Sun Karaoke bar in Tsim Sha Tsui by tonight. The owner is behind on his 'management fee.' The two thousand for your friend's debt will come from that. You may keep anything over five thousand for yourselves. Consider it your first paycheck."
It was a brutal, elegant test. A collections run. Simple, violent, and a perfect way to see what the new guy was made of.
"Understood, sir," Kai said.
As they were dismissed and shuffled out of the tea house, back into the overwhelming sensory blast of the market, Lok let out a long, shaky breath he seemed to have been holding the entire time.
"Five thousand! By tonight! And we have to cover that deadbeat's debt…" he moaned, running a hand through his hair. "This is a disaster."
Kai looked at the bustling crowd, the hawkers shouting, the tourists bargaining. This was the world he was supposed to be cleaning up. And his first official act was to go and extort money from a small business owner.
He felt the weight of the burner phone in his pocket. He couldn't report this. He couldn't warn the karaoke bar. He had to do it. He had to become a criminal.
He clapped Lok on his good shoulder, the gesture feeling foreign and heavy.
"It's not a disaster," Kai said, his voice hardening to match the resolve he was forcing into his own heart. "It's a job. Let's go get our money."