The harsh *crack* of splintered wood still echoed in Zhāng Měi's ears, her fingers trembling as she ended the call to Chén Léi. "They're coming," she whispered, her voice shaky, her knuckles white where she still clutched a handful of Qí Hǔ's shirt. The fragrant steam from the forgotten hotpot felt obscene against the cold dread seeping into the shop, the shattered back door a jagged maw letting in the damp, unwelcome breath of the alley. The Nightingale Loom's symbol on the heavy envelope in Qí Hǔ's hand seemed to pulse with malevolent energy.
Qí Hǔ remained statue-still for a moment longer, his senses stretched towards the ruined doorway, confirming the giant's departure. Then, with a calm that felt unnerving, he gently disengaged Zhāng Měi's grip. "Stay here," he murmured, his voice low and steady, an anchor in her fear. He didn't look at the envelope again. He moved towards the wreckage of the door.
Ignoring the splinters, he grasped the heavy, splintered wood. With surprising strength for his lean frame, he hauled the broken door upright, propping it roughly back into the frame. It hung crookedly, gaping holes revealing glimpses of the gloomy alley beyond. He rummaged silently in a toolbox beneath the counter, pulling out a hammer, a handful of long nails, and a roll of thick, industrial tape. Without a word, he began the grim task of securing the breach, hammering nails at angles through the fractured wood into the doorframe, layering strips of tape over the largest gaps. Each blow of the hammer was precise, forceful, a counterpoint to the frantic beating of Zhāng Měi's heart. He worked with the focused efficiency of a man sealing a tomb, or perhaps fortifying a battlement.
The silence stretched, thick with Zhāng Měi's ragged breathing and the rhythmic *thunk* of the hammer. Then, the shop bell jangled violently, heralding the arrival of salvation, or perhaps just more chaos. Chén Léi burst in first, his face etched with urgency, his eyes instantly scanning the room, taking in Zhāng Měi's pale face, the hastily boarded door, Qí Hǔ's grim task. Right behind him was Wáng Jiàn, his usual composure replaced by sharp concern, and Officer Zhang, the young detective from the previous day, her expression professionally alert, hand resting near her holster.
"Report," Chén Léi barked, his cop voice snapping the tension. His gaze landed on the envelope Qí Hǔ had placed on the worktable beside the cooling hotpot.
Zhāng Měi found her voice, pointing a trembling finger. "A man… huge… kicked the door in… just stood there… gave Qi that." She swallowed hard. "He was terrifying, Chén Léi."
Chén Léi moved swiftly to the envelope, picking it up with gloved hands he produced from his pocket. Officer Zhang stepped closer, pulling out her own notebook. "Description of the individual, Ms. Zhang?" she asked Zhāng Měi, her tone crisp.
"Massive," Zhāng Měi breathed. "Like a mountain. Shaved head, scars… lots of scars. Cold eyes. Dead eyes. Didn't say much. Just 'message'."
Officer Zhang scribbled furiously. Wáng Jiàn moved to Zhāng Měi's side, placing a steadying hand on her arm. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head mutely, leaning into his calm presence.
Chén Léi carefully slit the envelope with a pocket knife. He pulled out a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper. The letterhead was the same intricate birdcage symbol. He read aloud, his voice flat, each word dropping like a stone into the tense silence:
> *"Qí Hǔ,*
>
> *You started a fight you should have forgotten. Stirring hornets brings stings. Arresting one of ours creates ripples. Jin was small, but connected. His silence is… inconvenient.*
>
> *We remember. We remember what you did eight years ago. Because of your interference, a carefully laid plan failed. Eight years of setback, eight years of waiting. But time refines, resources replenish. The Loom is rebuilt, stronger, smarter. The 'improved stuff' is ready.*
>
> *Consider this your only warning. Stand down. Forget Jin, forget the cobalt thread, forget the past you buried. Crawl back into your dusty alley and mend your rags.*
>
> *If you persist, if you involve the authorities further… the consequences will extend far beyond your broken door. We know where your newfound 'family' resides. Their glittering towers offer little protection against the shadows we weave.*
>
> *Choose wisely. The Nightingale sings only once."*
The silence after he finished was absolute, broken only by the frantic bubbling of the hotpot and Zhāng Měi's sharp intake of breath. Eight years. The phrase hung in the air, a dark hook snagging in Qí Hǔ's hidden past. He'd finished nailing the last strip of tape over a gap and turned, his expression unreadable, wiping his hands on a rag.
Chén Léi lowered the letter, his gaze fixed on Qí Hǔ, intense and demanding. "Eight years ago? What did you do, Qí Hǔ? *How* do you know these people? This isn't just about Jin or the thread, is it? This is personal. Ancient history." His voice held no accusation, only the desperate need to understand the scope of the threat bearing down on them all.
Qí Hǔ met his gaze. The words – the explanation for eight years ago, for the skills, for the shadows that clung to him – seemed to form and dissolve on his tongue. It was a chasm he hadn't planned to cross, not here, not now. Before he could force any sound out, the shop bell jangled again, a jarring interruption.
Lán Yīng stood there, her face pale and strained, her earlier fury replaced by a bewildered anxiety. David was right behind her, his expression a mixture of impatience and dawning curiosity as he took in the unexpected gathering – the high-ranking detective, the tech billionaire, the fashion CEO, the uniformed officer, all crowded in the dusty shop, faces grim. His gaze swept over the hastily repaired door, the forgotten hotpot, and finally landed on Qí Hǔ, standing near the worktable, the rag still in his hands.
"Well, well," David drawled, stepping fully inside, a condescending smile playing on his lips. He recognized the others instantly. "Chén Léi! Wáng Jiàn! Zhāng Měi! Fancy meeting Shanghai's finest and brightest in this... *establishment*." His gaze flickered dismissively over the bolts of fabric. "Social outreach program?" He turned his attention back to Qí Hǔ, his smile turning into a sneer. "And still here, Mr. Alley Shop? Lán said she needed to come back, something urgent. Didn't realize it was a reunion of the city's elite slumming it." He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. His eyes, sharp and calculating, moved between the powerful figures and Qí Hǔ. "Seriously, though, how *do* you all know this poor bastard? Charity case? Lost cause project?" He gestured vaguely at Qí Hǔ's worn clothes.
The insult, delivered with such casual, entitled disdain, landed like a spark in dry tinder. Chén Léi's face darkened instantly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He took a half-step forward, his fists clenching at his sides, a low growl escaping his throat. "You watch your mouth—"
Qí Hǔ moved faster. Not towards David, but towards Chén Léi. His hand shot out, clamping firmly around Chén Léi's forearm just as the detective tensed to lunge. It wasn't a harsh grip, but it was unyielding iron, stopping Chén Léi's momentum cold. Qí Hǔ met his furious gaze, a silent command in his own dark eyes: *Not here. Not for him.* Chén Léi vibrated with suppressed rage but held still, glaring at David.
Lán Yīng flinched, her eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. "David!" she hissed, her voice tight. "That's uncalled for!"
David merely raised an eyebrow, unfazed, mistaking Qí Hǔ's restraint for weakness. "What? Just asking. Seems an odd crowd for a place like this." He looked around, his smirk widening. "Unless... he's the help? Your personal rag-mender, Zhāng Měi? Your confidential informant, Detective?" His gaze landed back on Qí Hǔ. "Or maybe just the neighborhood charity project you all feel obligated to—"
He didn't get to finish. Zhāng Měi had been a coiled spring of fury since Lán Yīng's first visit, simmering with protectiveness and outrage. David's final, sneering "charity project" snapped her restraint. She stepped forward, shoving past Wáng Jiàn's calming hand, her elegant facade shattering into pure, incandescent rage. She got right into David's face, her finger jabbing towards his chest, her voice a whip-crack of fury that silenced the room.
"*Charity project*?!" she spat, her eyes blazing. "You arrogant, ignorant *prick*! You stand there in your expensive suit, dripping condescension, judging a man whose *bootlaces* you aren't fit to tie! Whatever we are today – detective, CEO, mogul, *pianist* –" she shot a furious glance at Lán Yīng, "– we owe it to *this* 'poor bastard'! He protected us when we had *nothing*! He fought off bullies twice his size when we were kids starving in an orphanage! He shared his last scrap of bread! He was our shield, our brother, when the world wanted to crush us! And he vanished *because* he thought his failure would drag us down, not because he didn't care! So you take your cheap insults and your designer disdain and shove them straight up your privileged—"
"Zhāng Měi!" Lán Yīng cried out, her own face flushed with anger and humiliation, stepping towards her friend. "How dare you speak to David like that! And how dare you presume to speak *for* me! You have no right—"
"I have every right!" Zhāng Měi whirled on her, the years of shared history and the fresh pain of Qi's return boiling over. "You slapped him! You brought *this*... *creature*... into his space to sneer at him! After twelve years of silence, that's your grand reunion? You owe him answers, Lán Yīng, not this... this *performance* with your trophy boyfriend!"
"It's not a performance!" Lán Yīng shot back, tears springing to her eyes again, a confusing mix of fury, guilt, and defensive pride. "You don't understand anything! You weren't the one left behind! You weren't the one who—"
"STOP."
The word wasn't loud. It wasn't a shout. It was Wáng Jiàn's voice, calm, deep, and utterly commanding. He hadn't moved from his spot near Zhāng Měi, but he stepped forward slightly now, placing himself physically between the two furious women. His quiet intensity cut through the escalating argument like a blade through smoke. He looked first at Zhāng Měi, then at Lán Yīng, his gaze steady, implacable. "This solves nothing. It helps no one." His eyes, sharp behind his glasses, then swept over David's smirking face, lingering for a cold second, before finally settling on Qí Hǔ, who stood silently near the worktable, Chén Léi's arm still held loosely in his grip, his expression unreadable.
The silence that followed Wáng Jiàn's intervention was profound. Zhāng Měi trembled with residual fury, Lán Yīng wiped angrily at her tears, David looked momentarily wrong-footed by the quiet authority. Officer Zhang watched, her professional mask firmly in place, absorbing everything. Chén Léi slowly relaxed his fist, Qí Hǔ releasing his arm.
Wáng Jiàn held Qí Hǔ's gaze. In that quiet, heavy space, charged with fractured friendships, class resentment, police scrutiny, and the ever-present shadow of the Nightingale Loom's threat, he asked the question that hung over them all, the question that now demanded an answer more than ever. His voice was quiet, but it filled the room.
"Qi Hǔ," he said, the old nickname deliberate. "Now. Tell us. How do you know them? What happened eight years ago?" He gestured subtly towards the ominous letter still clutched in Chén Léi's hand. "The shadows are at the door. It's time for the light."
All eyes turned to Qí Hǔ. He stood amidst the remnants of his shattered peace – the hastily repaired door, the cooling, forgotten food, the faces of his found family etched with fear, anger, confusion, and desperate hope. The weight of eight years, of the Nightingale Loom's vendetta, of Lán Yīng's tears and David's sneer, pressed down on him. He looked at Wáng Jiàn, then slowly let his gaze travel over Chén Léi's intense concern, Zhāng Měi's fierce protectiveness, Lán Yīng's tear-streaked confusion, and even David's bewildered disdain. The silence stretched, thick with expectation. Finally, he took a slow, deep breath, the rag falling forgotten from his hand. The time for silence was over.