Location: Fenwick District — Long Walk Restaurant — Night
The Long Walk was beautiful.
Red lanterns hung from the ceiling in long, drooping clusters, their glow warm and soft, casting the dining room in shades of amber and rose. The light caught the edges of porcelain teapots and made the white tablecloths seem to glow. The walls were covered in scrolls—landscapes of misty mountains, rivers winding through ancient forests, lines of poetry written in calligraphy so elegant that most diners could not read a single character.
The customers were not there for the food.
They sat in high-backed booths along the walls, their faces partially hidden behind leather menus. Their hands moved beneath the tables—sliding envelopes, exchanging small wrapped packages, counting bills with thumbs that never stopped moving. A woman in a silk dress of deep emerald leaned close to a man in a charcoal business suit. Her lips brushed his ear. His hand disappeared beneath the table. When it emerged, an envelope had changed hands.
The hostesses moved between the tables like ghosts.
Their dresses were short, their heels high, their smiles practiced over years of use. They carried lacquered trays loaded with small porcelain cups of jasmine tea, glasses of whiskey that caught the lantern light, and small plates of chalk—cocaine pressed into thin, brittle discs, wrapped in paper printed with gold foil.
The deal was always the same.
Tea first. Then the whisper. Then the moment of privacy. The envelope changed hands beneath the table. The customer left with a smile, his pupils wide, his step light. The hostess returned to the kitchen and counted the cash in a small room hidden behind the walk-in freezer.
The noodles were real. Hand-pulled, tossed in dark sesame oil, topped with slivers of scallion and shreds of pork.
The tea was real. Aged oolong, steeped at precisely the right temperature, poured with a flourish.
The chalk was the real currency.
---
The front door exploded inward.
Not literally—not with fire, not with smoke. The wood splintered along its grain, cracks racing from the lock to the hinges like lightning. The brass handle tore free and clattered across the floor. The door swung open, and the men poured through.
They wore long wool coats, dark as storm clouds. Their faces were hidden behind flat caps and thick scarves wrapped around their throats. Their hands gripped Louisville Sluggers—birch wood, taped handles, the barrels stained dark from years of use.
The first swing caught a vase near the entrance. Glazed ceramic, blue and white, depicting a fisherman on a riverbank. It shattered. Shards sprayed across the floor. Water pooled around the fragments. The flowers—white lilies, their stems still green—lay scattered among the ruin.
The second swing sent a table flying. It flipped once, twice, then crashed against the wall. Dumplings scattered. Teapots shattered. A plate of noodles hung in the air for a moment before slapping against the floor.
The third swing caught a customer in the shoulder. A middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit, his face still flushed from the whiskey he had been drinking. The impact spun him around. He screamed—a high, thin sound—and fell to his knees. He crawled toward the exit, one hand pressed against his collarbone, his fingers already wet.
The hostesses screamed.
The customers scrambled.
The men moved through the chaos like wolves through a burning forest. Their boots stomped on broken porcelain. Their bats swung in wide, brutal arcs. A window shattered—glass exploding outward, catching the streetlight and scattering across the sidewalk. A chair splintered. A chandelier fell, its crystals spraying across the floor like frozen raindrops.
The man at the center walked slowly.
His coat was longer than the others, its hem brushing the tops of his boots. His cap was pulled lower, shadowing his eyes. The scar that ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth was visible even in the dim light—pale against his weathered skin, a reminder of a knife fight in a St. Petersburg alley twenty years ago.
Roman Volkov.
His boots crunched on the glass. His eyes moved across the room—taking in the overturned tables, the broken lanterns, the bodies of the Long Walk guards who had tried to stop him. One of them lay near the kitchen door, his leg bent at an angle that legs were not meant to bend. Another was slumped against the wall, his head lolling, a dark stain spreading across his white jacket.
Roman stopped in the center of the room.
He raised his bat.
The tip was wet.
"You two-faced bitch!"
His voice echoed off the walls.
"Get your slimy ass out here!"
---
Upstairs, Mei-Lin heard the screams.
She was sitting on a chaise lounge upholstered in pale gold silk, her legs crossed at the ankle, her robe hanging open. The fabric was thin, almost transparent, dyed the color of a peach blossom. A man lay beside her—his face flushed, his eyes half-closed, his hand resting on her bare thigh. His tie had been loosened. His shirt was untucked.
She had been whispering in his ear. Promising things she would never deliver.
The crash from below changed everything.
Her head snapped toward the door.
Her eyes narrowed.
"What was that?"
The man's hand tightened on her thigh.
"Probably nothing. Probably just—"
The door burst open.
A maid stood in the threshold. Her face was the color of old paper. Her hands were shaking so badly that the hem of her uniform trembled. A tear ran down her cheek, cutting a dark path through her foundation.
"Mistress," she gasped. "We have a problem. It's Roman Volkov. He's—he's—"
She couldn't finish the sentence.
Mei-Lin stood.
The robe fell from her shoulders and pooled on the floor.
She was not wearing anything underneath.
The man's eyes widened. His hand dropped from her thigh. His mouth opened, then closed.
Mei-Lin didn't look at him.
"Get dressed," she said. "And get out. Use the back stairs. Don't let anyone see you."
She walked to the wardrobe.
Her hands moved fast—not panicked, practiced. She pulled a dress from a hanger. Silk. Crimson. It slid over her head and settled around her hips like a second skin. She stepped into her heels—black, stiletto, the kind that could double as weapons.
She walked to the door.
"Show me."
---
The stairs were narrow, carpeted in deep burgundy, their walls lined with photographs of misty landscapes that no one had ever visited. The frames were silver. The glass was spotless.
Mei-Lin descended.
Her heels clicked on the wood—one, two, three—a slow, deliberate rhythm. The dress whispered against her thighs. Her face was calm. Her eyes were not.
She reached the bottom.
The dining room was a battlefield.
Tables overturned. Chairs splintered. Glass everywhere. The hostesses were huddled in the corner near the kitchen door, their arms around each other, their faces buried in each other's shoulders. One of them was crying. Another was shaking so hard that her teeth chattered.
Roman stood in the center of the destruction.
His bat hung from his hand. Its handle was wrapped in black tape. Its barrel was wet.
Their eyes met.
"Just what in the heavenly empress's seven lands," Mei-Lin said, "do you think you're doing?"
Her voice was cold. Flat. The voice of someone who had stopped being afraid years ago.
Roman's lip curled.
"Oh, what? You dare ask me what I'm doing?"
He stepped closer. His boots crunched on the glass.
"You. You dare ask me?"
"I asked you a question."
"And I'll give you an answer."
He raised the bat.
"I'm dealing with a snake."
---
Mei-Lin's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... there.
She pressed a button on the wall—a small brass disk, hidden behind a scroll, invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look.
Somewhere in the back of the restaurant, a bell rang.
The kitchen doors burst open.
Men poured out—not waiters, not chefs. Their faces were hard. Their hands were empty, but their postures suggested they wouldn't stay that way. They wore dark jackets and loose pants, their feet bare, their hair tied back.
Warriors, Roman thought. She keeps warriors in her kitchen.
Like a general.
Like a queen.
The men formed a line behind her.
Their hands were fists. Their feet were planted. Their eyes were fixed on Roman's crew.
"You think you can come into my home," Mei-Lin said, "and threaten me?"
"I'm not threatening you."
Roman raised the bat higher.
"I'm warning you."
---
The fight was chaos.
Not the ordered chaos of a battle—the messy, desperate chaos of men who had stopped thinking and started surviving.
Roman's men swung their bats in wide, brutal arcs. The wood whistled through the air. It struck shoulders, ribs, elbows. Bones cracked—not loudly, but with a wet, muffled sound that made the hostesses in the corner sob harder.
Mei-Lin's men moved differently. They ducked, wove, stepped inside the swings. Their fists struck throats, solar plexuses, temples. One of them caught a bat mid-swing—his fingers wrapped around the barrel and pulled. The Russian holding it stumbled forward. A knee rose. A nose broke.
Blood sprayed across a white tablecloth.
Roman swung at a man in a dark jacket. The bat caught him in the ribs—three of them, maybe four, cracking like dry twigs. The man fell. His hands pressed against his side. His mouth opened. No sound came out.
Another man lunged at Roman from the left. His fist was aimed at Roman's throat.
Roman's free hand shot up. His fingers closed around the man's wrist. He squeezed. The bones ground together. The man's fingers went numb. His arm dropped.
Roman's bat came up.
The barrel caught the man's chin.
His head snapped back. His body spun. He crashed into a table, flipped over it, and landed in a heap on the other side.
Mei-Lin moved through the chaos like a dancer.
Her hands were empty. Her feet were light. She stepped between the bodies, avoiding the blows, striking when the opportunity presented itself. A palm to a Russian's chest. A knee to a thigh. A elbow to a temple.
"You think you can ruin me?" Roman shouted.
He swung.
Mei-Lin ducked. The bat whistled over her head.
"You think you can send your puppet to destroy my business?"
Another swing.
She sidestepped. The bat passed where her shoulder had been.
"You think—"
Her fist caught his jaw.
His head snapped back.
He stumbled.
His bat fell.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mei-Lin said.
Her voice was calm.
"Liar."
Roman's hand shot out.
His fingers closed around her wrist.
He pulled.
She stumbled forward.
His other hand found her throat.
"You're going to pay for what you did."
"I didn't do anything."
"Liar!"
He squeezed.
Her eyes widened.
Her hands clawed at his fingers.
---
A whistle.
Sharp. Clear. Cutting through the chaos like a blade.
The fighting stopped.
Roman's head turned.
Mei-Lin's head turned.
The men—both sides—stepped back, their weapons raised, their breathing heavy.
A figure stood in the doorway.
Diego.
His face was soft. Round. Forgettable. His hands were in his pockets. His posture was loose. Relaxed. His eyes moved across the room—taking in the overturned tables, the broken lanterns, the bodies of the fallen.
"Gentlemen," he said.
His voice was soft. High. Sweet.
"Ladies."
He stepped into the room.
Glass crunched beneath his boots.
"I think it's time we all calm down."
---
Roman's eyes narrowed.
"You."
"Me."
"You're the one."
"I'm the one."
Diego walked toward them.
His footsteps were soft on the glass. His hands were still in his pockets. His face was still calm.
"You've been causing quite a bit of trouble," he said. "Both of you. Fighting over territory. Fighting over money. Fighting over things that don't matter."
He stopped in front of Roman.
"And now, you're going to stop."
"Or what?"
Diego's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... there.
His fingers were covered in centipedes.
Xototl.
Small. Pale. Translucent. Their bodies were segmented, each segment no larger than a grain of rice. Their legs moved in slow, rhythmic waves, a hundred tiny limbs brushing against Diego's skin. Their heads were featureless except for two dark spots that might have been eyes.
"Or this."
He reached out.
The centipedes crawled from his fingers onto Roman's hand.
Roman's eyes widened.
He tried to pull back.
His arm wouldn't move.
The centipedes moved up his wrist, across his forearm, over his elbow. He could feel them—a thousand tiny legs, a thousand tiny pinpricks, a cold that spread through his veins like winter.
His body stiffened.
His breath caught.
Then relaxed.
Mei-Lin tried to step back.
Diego's other hand caught her wrist.
More centipedes.
They crawled from his fingers onto her skin, up her arm, across her shoulder, under her collar. She felt them moving through her hair, across her scalp, behind her eyes.
Her body stiffened.
Then relaxed.
---
The room was silent.
Roman's men stood frozen, their bats raised, their faces pale. Their eyes were fixed on their leader, who stood motionless, his face blank, his hands at his sides.
Mei-Lin's men stood frozen, their fists raised, their faces pale. Their eyes were fixed on their mistress, who stood motionless, her face blank, her hands at her sides.
Diego stood in the center.
His hands were in his pockets again.
His face was calm.
"You're going to work together now," he said.
"You're going to share the money. Share the territory. Share the power."
He smiled.
"And you're going to forget that this ever happened."
He turned.
He walked toward the door.
His footsteps were soft on the glass.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Roman blinked.
His hand rose to his face.
His fingers touched his scar.
"What... what happened?"
Mei-Lin's hand rose to her throat.
Her fingers touched the red marks left by Roman's grip.
"I don't remember."
Their eyes met.
Confusion. Suspicion. Then, slowly, acceptance.
"We should clean this up," Roman said.
"Yes," Mei-Lin replied. "We should."
---