A waiter approached Tòumíng's table, young guy with slicked-back hair and the professional smile of someone working for tips. "Have you decided on a dish, sir?"
Tòumíng squinted at the menu, most of the words swimming together in a confusing mess of fancy food terminology he'd never encountered. But one item caught his eye: "5 Pound Deluxe Crust... crust..." He leaned closer, trying to sound out the letters. "Crust...atchian?"
"Oh, the Crustacean platter?" The waiter's smile brightened. "Excellent choice. That's our signature dish—whole lobster, king crab legs, jumbo shrimp, and—"
"Yes, yes, that one." Tòumíng nodded quickly, trying to recover from his pronunciation disaster. "Pardon my accent. You see, I am from..."
He looked around desperately, searching for inspiration. His eyes landed on a customer across the room. A man. Just a regular man eating soup.
"Man..." Tòumíng continued, his brain scrambling.
The man was wearing ripped jeans. His knees were visible through the tears, looking particularly ashy and dry under the restaurant lighting.
"Man... knee..."
The man was also wearing sandals. Toe sandals specifically, the kind with individual slots for each toe.
"Man... knee... toe..."
His gaze shifted to the bar area where several people sat drinking expensive-looking cocktails.
"Bar. Man-knee-toe-bar. Yes, yes. I'm from Man-knee-toe-bar."
The waiter's expression shifted to delighted recognition. "Ohhhh, you're Canadian? Manitoba, right? I've always wanted to vacation there! I hear the lakes are beautiful."
Tòumíng's brain stuttered. That was a real place? Manitoba was actually a real location that existed?
"Ha ha... yes, yes!" He forced enthusiasm into his voice. "You haven't seen the world until you've been to... Man-knee-toe-bar. The lakes are very... wet. And lake-like."
"I'll have to add it to my travel list!" The waiter chuckled, writing down the order. "Your Crustacean platter will be out in about twenty minutes."
He walked away, still smiling at the encounter with an "exotic foreigner."
Tòumíng leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Phew. I'm so smart."
Silence from Cupid.
"Dude, was my joke that bad?"
More silence.
"Uh... bro?"
Cupid's voice came out quiet, tense, completely unlike his usual sarcastic tone. "Don't panic. Don't look around. The people at the table behind you—three tables back, near the pillar—are gangsters."
Tòumíng's grin faltered. "What?"
"They're the same ones who were outside your apartment building. All five of them. They followed you here. You're being watched." Cupid's voice was rapid, urgent. "Just stay calm. Whatever you do, don't look back. Don't let them know you've noticed. Act normal. Eat your food when it comes. Then leave casually and—"
Tòumíng looked back.
Turned completely around in his chair, making direct eye contact with all five men sitting awkwardly at a table clearly meant for intimate couples, not surveillance operations.
"FUCK!" Cupid yelled. "YOU IDIOT!"
At the gang members' table, panic erupted in whispered hisses.
"He looked at us!"
"He made eye contact!"
"Does he know?!"
"Of course he knows! You don't just turn around and stare at people like that unless you know!"
Donny grabbed his flip phone under the table, fingers hovering over the call button. "Do we abort? Ghost said not to spook him and we definitely just spooked him."
"Put the phone away!" Yellow Teeth grabbed his wrist. "We don't know for sure he spotted us. Maybe he was just looking around. Rich people do that. Observe their surroundings. Very main character behavior."
The muscle guy cracked his knuckles nervously. "If he runs, we follow, right?"
"Obviously we follow. That's the whole job."
"But Ghost said observe only."
"Ghost also gave us guns. There's an implication there."
They watched Tòumíng turn back around, facing his table again, body language impossible to read from this distance.
"Okay, new plan," Donny said quietly. "We wait. If he attempts to leave now, immediately after spotting us, we follow. If he stays and eats, maybe he didn't notice and we're just paranoid."
The others nodded, hands unconsciously moving to weapons hidden under flannel shirts and jackets.
The waiting game began.
Tòumíng faced forward again, his heart hammering. Five guys. Armed, probably. Following him. Watching him.
"Okay, don't panic," he muttered.
"YOU LOOKED RIGHT AT THEM!"
"I know! I panicked!"
"I SPECIFICALLY SAID DON'T LOOK!"
"Reverse psychology! When you tell me not to do something, my brain immediately wants to do it!"
"That's not how reverse psychology works!"
Twenty minutes crawled by like hours. Tòumíng sat rigidly in his chair, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly. Other diners probably thought he was having some kind of medical episode.
Finally, mercifully, the waiter returned with the largest platter Tòumíng had ever seen. A whole lobster, bright red, steam rising from its shell. King crab legs arranged artistically. Jumbo shrimp the size of his fist. Small dishes of melted butter. Lemon wedges. Tools he didn't recognize for cracking shells.
It looked incredible. Smelled even better.
The waiter set it down with a flourish. "Your five-pound Deluxe Crustacean platter. Enjoy!"
Tòumíng stared at it. He'd never had shrimp before. Never had any seafood really, beyond the occasional questionable fish from street vendors. This was supposed to be amazing. The thing rich people raved about.
He picked up a piece of lobster, dipped it in butter, and took a bite.
Heaven. Pure, buttery, succulent heaven. The texture, the flavor, the way it practically melted in his mouth. This was what wealthy people experienced regularly? This was what he'd been missing his entire life?
BUT HEAVEN COULD WAIT.
He set down the lobster, the perfect meal suddenly irrelevant in the face of five armed men watching his every move.
The waiter passed by and Tòumíng flagged her down, pulling the entire ten-thousand-yuan stack from his fanny pack. He slammed it on the table with enough force to make nearby diners look over.
"Take this as payment for the meal and a tip. But actually on second thought I don't want the food."
The waiter's professional smile faltered. "Was there something wrong with it, sir? I can have the kitchen—"
"No! It's perfect! Best thing I've ever tasted! I just..." He stood up, pushing his chair back with a scrape. "I remembered I have somewhere to be. Keep the money. All of it. Enjoy."
"But sir, the meal only costs three thousand—"
"KEEP IT!"
Tòumíng walked toward the exit, forcing himself to move calmly, casually, like someone who definitely wasn't being followed by armed criminals and definitely hadn't just abandoned the best meal of his life.
Behind him, the gang members erupted into motion.
"SHIT, HE KNOWS!"
"Move, move, move!"
They scrambled up from their table, knocking over water glasses, one of them leaving cash they didn't have time to count.
Tòumíng glanced back as he pushed through the restaurant door.
Five men rushing toward the exit.
"SHIT, THEY KNOW I KNOW!"
He started walking faster, not quite running but definitely power-walking. The bike was right there in the rack but if he stopped to unlock it they'd catch up. Better to keep moving, get to somewhere more public, somewhere with witnesses and cameras.
The street stretched ahead, well-lit but surprisingly empty for this time of evening. He turned down a side street, then another, the sounds of footsteps behind him growing closer.
An alleyway appeared on his left. Dark. Narrow. Probably stupid to go into.
Tòumíng ducked into it.
"What are you doing?!" Cupid yelled.
"How much experience could I get for beating the shit out of these dudes?" Tòumíng asked, his back against the alley wall, breathing hard.
"What?!"
"You heard me. Combat experience. Leveling up. How much?"
Cupid was silent for a beat, processing the absolute insanity of what Tòumíng was suggesting. Then, hesitantly: "You're guaranteed at least... three skills. Maybe more if you win decisively. The system rewards combat innovation and—are you seriously considering fighting five armed gang members in an alley?!"