Tòumíng walked through the darkening streets of Longhua, the weight of seven thousand yuan in his pocket feeling both reassuring and terrifying. The restaurant was twenty minutes away on foot, twenty minutes to mentally prepare himself for facing the man who'd ordered him beaten half to death just last night.
The streets grew more familiar as he approached the old district. Fewer people out here, more shadows, the kind of neighborhood where everyone minded their business because not minding your business could get you hurt.
"Wait." Cupid's voice cut through his thoughts. "The quartz. The big piece. You still have it in your pants."
Tòumíng's hand automatically went to his thigh, feeling the uncomfortable bulk still wedged between his legs. Shit. He'd been so focused on getting the money he'd forgotten about the five-pound chunk still hidden on him.
"They'll search you. Or at least pat you down. They might not find it, but if they do..." Cupid didn't need to finish the sentence. If Hǔtān's men found fifty-six thousand yuan worth of rose quartz on him while he was claiming he barely scraped together two thousand, things would get very bad very quickly.
The restaurant came into view, its red lanterns glowing in the darkness. Tòumíng ducked into the alley beside it, the same alley where they'd thrown him in the dumpster last night. The smell hit him immediately, rotting food and garbage and the faint metallic scent of his own dried blood.
He pulled the quartz out of his pants with a grimace and looked around for somewhere to hide it. The dumpster sat against the wall, its lid slightly ajar.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.
"Just shove it under some garbage bags. You'll be in and out in five minutes, then you can grab it and go."
Tòumíng lifted the dumpster lid, trying not to breathe through his nose, and wedged the quartz chunk deep under several layers of trash. He made note of exactly where he put it, then let the lid fall closed with a metallic clang.
Deep breath. Seven thousand yuan in his pocket. Two thousand for Hǔtān. He could do this.
The restaurant door opened with a familiar creak. The interior was busier than last night, actual customers scattered at tables eating late dinners, but the bar area was clearly designated territory. Five of Hǔtān's men lounged there, and the moment Tòumíng stepped inside, all conversation stopped.
Scarface, the one from this morning with the distinctive mark running down his cheek, was the first to react. A grin spread across his face, wide and predatory.
"BROTHER TOU!" The words dripped with false warmth, patronizing and mocking in equal measure. "Look who's back from the dead! Literally!"
The others started laughing, a sound that made Tòumíng's skin crawl.
"What's the matter, brother?" Another one called out, a thin man with yellowed teeth. "You here for an early execution? Couldn't wait until midnight?"
"Maybe he's here to beg," the woman from this morning suggested, examining her nails with exaggerated disinterest. "Get a head start on the groveling."
"I'll cover five hundred yuan of his debt," a muscular guy with neck tattoos announced, "if he licks my boots. Both of them. Nice and clean."
More laughter. They were enjoying this, feeding off each other's cruelty like sharks circling wounded prey.
"I bet he doesn't even have the money," Scarface said, standing up from his stool. "I bet he came here to cry and make excuses and promise he'll have it tomorrow. Just like his daddy used to do."
"His daddy hung himself," someone pointed out.
"Exactly my point."
Tòumíng stood in the doorway, keeping his expression neutral, his hands at his sides. He'd learned long ago that responding to their taunts only made it worse. They wanted a reaction, wanted to see fear or anger or desperation.
"What do you think, boys?" The woman leaned back against the bar. "Should we take bets on how long he lasts this time? I say three broken ribs before he passes out."
"I say he doesn't make it past the first—"
A hand raised.
Just one hand, barely lifting off the bar surface, fingers uncurling slightly in a gesture so subtle it should have been meaningless.
But everyone stopped talking instantly. Mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-breath. The silence was absolute, oppressive, like someone had hit a mute button on the entire room.
Hǔtān sat at the far end of the bar, shirtless as always, the tiger on his back seeming to watch Tòumíng with its painted eyes. He hadn't turned around, hadn't acknowledged Tòumíng's presence directly, but that single raised hand carried more authority than any words could.
Tòumíng felt his bowels clench, actual physical terror shooting through his system. He'd almost forgotten what this felt like, the sheer presence of the man, the way he commanded absolute obedience without speaking a single word.
His hand shook slightly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the money. He counted out two thousand yuan with careful precision, his fingers fumbling slightly on the bills, and set it on the nearest table.
"For this month," he managed to say, his voice steadier than he felt. "The payment. It's all there."
Scarface walked over, picked up the money, and counted it slowly. His eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across his face. He counted it again, then walked it over to Hǔtān and set it on the bar beside him.
Tòumíng turned to leave. Every instinct screamed at him to get out, to run while he still could, while his legs still worked and his ribs were still intact. He made it three steps. Four. His hand reached for the door handle.
"Stop."
The word was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a gunshot. Hǔtān's voice. The first time Tòumíng had ever heard him speak, and the sound of it, low and rough like gravel scraping against stone, made his blood run cold.
Tòumíng's hand froze on the door handle, every muscle in his body locking up. He didn't turn around. Couldn't turn around. Just stood there, waiting, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.