Yangon.
The famous core area of the Golden Triangle.
Outside the city, the iron sheet warehouse at the port looked like a soaked rag in the heavy rain.
The rusty metal frames creaked in the wind, mixed with the fishy smell wafting in from the Mekong River, turning the air into a pot of sticky mud.
The typhoon was coming.
Precisely at three in the afternoon.
Khun Sa stepped in, treading through the puddles, his black rubber shoes grinding over cigarette butts on the ground, leaving two crooked water traces on the concrete floor, followed by four bodyguards.
"Mr. Khun Sa is punctual as always."
A short, fat man stood up from the shadows in the back of the warehouse, Ruan Wenxiong's silk shirt had sweat marks, his gold watch flashing dizzyingly on his wrist.
Wooden crates piled to the roof beside him, the canvas covering them was lifted by the wind, revealing dark green metal cans inside.
