Chapter 121: An Appointment
The small room reeked of antiseptic and regret. A Long lay on the single bed, his backside a mangled mess of blood and bruising—twenty lashes, administered with the same cruelty Qian Baoqing reserved for traitors. He grunted, shifting slightly, and winced as the movement jostled his wounds. "Xin, tell me this isn't worth it. We've bleeding for that bastard for years—took bullets for him, covered his dirty work—and this is how he repays us? A whipping? Like we're dogs?"
A Xin lay silent on the other bed, his own injuries throbbing. He stared at the water-stained ceiling, his mind reeling. Four years ago, he and A Long had been starving, cornered in an alley by loan sharks, their ribs cracking under fists. Qian had appeared then, calm and imposing, with a single gesture ordering the thugs away. "Loyalty," he'd said, pressing a wad of bills into their hands, "pays better than pride." They'd sworn to serve him, blind to the rot beneath his charm.
But today, in that meeting room, Qian's eyes had held no recognition—no flicker of the man who once clapped them on the back, calling them "brothers." Only cold suspicion.
"We made a mistake," A Xin said finally, his voice hoarse. "The girl slipped through. He's right to be angry."
"Angry? He's *paranoid*!" A Long spat. "That girl was a cop—Fu Junyao, I'd bet. You think we could've stopped her? She's trained to fight. But no, he'd rather blame us than admit he's losing his grip." He slammed a fist into the mattress, wincing again. "I say we walk. Find work elsewhere. Anywhere but Eastern Coast."
A Xin closed his eyes. Leaving would mean betraying the man who'd saved their lives. But staying… staying meant swallowing more humiliation, more lashes, more of Qian's growing cruelty. He thought of the way Qian had watched them, as if weighing whether they were still useful—or better off dead.
"Where would we go?" he murmured.
"Anywhere. We're not kids anymore. We know how to fight, how to plan—" A Long's voice softened. "You know I'm right. He doesn't trust us. Not anymore."
A Xin said nothing. But in his chest, a quiet rebellion stirred.
Downstairs, in Eastern Coast's opulent office, Qian Baoqing listened to his subordinate's report—A Xin scolding A Long, ordering him to "show respect." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Loyalty," he mused, swirling a glass of whiskey, "is a mask. Everyone wears it until the price is right."
The subordinate shifted. "Shall we… loosen their restrictions, boss? They've been loyal—"
"Loyalty is earned," Qian cut him off, his tone sharp. "And they've earned *suspicion*. Keep them under watch. 24 hours. If they so much as whisper to a stranger, I want to know." He set the glass down, the clink echoing. "No one betrays me and lives to brag about it."
The subordinate bowed and left. Qian stared at his reflection in the window—gray at the temples, eyes hardening with each year. He'd built his empire on fear, but fear was a double-edged sword. It kept men in line… until it pushed them to run.
Wu Yifan arrived at Qingliu Street at 7:30, as promised. The street was quiet, lined with shuttered shops and the faint hum of a distant streetlamp. He stood beneath a flickering neon sign, his hands in his pockets, and waited. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. No sign of A Xin.
He was about to leave when his phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number:
*8 p.m., Rose Bar.*
Nine words. Wu Yifan's brow furrowed. Rose Bar? A hole-in-the-wall joint on the west side, nowhere near Qingliu. Why the switch?
Paranoia prickled. Was this a trap? Qian Baoqing finding out about their tentative arrangement, luring him into a snare? But A Xin was too sharp for that. If he'd wanted to betray Wu Yifan, he wouldn't have bothered with a text—he'd have sent enforcers.
No, this was a test. A Xin wanted to see if Wu Yifan was brave enough to walk into the unknown.
Wu Yifan smiled. He'd never been one to back down from a test.
Rose Bar was nothing like Eastern Coast or Infinite. No thumping music, no glittering chandeliers. Just dim lighting, the soft strum of a guitar from a corner, and the earthy scent of beer and cigarette smoke. A dozen patrons slouched at tables, muttering to themselves or nursing drinks. A few bar girls wandered through, their smiles tired but polite.
Wu Yifan slid onto a stool at the bar, ordering a glass of baijiu. He sipped slowly, his eyes scanning the room. No A Xin. Just a mix of drunks and regulars.
"Waiting for someone?"
The voice was warm, with a hint of amusement. Wu Yifan turned to find a woman in her thirties leaning against the bar, a highball glass in hand. She wore a red dress that clung to her curves, her dark hair falling in loose waves. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, but there was a kindness in her smile.
Wu Yifan nodded. "You could say that."
She giggled, setting her glass down. "I'm Su Mengjie. Owner of this little hole in the wall."
"Wu Yifan." He extended a hand. "Heard of you. You've kept this place alive through some tough times."
Su Mengjie raised an eyebrow. "Word travels fast. Especially about the man who outsmarted Qian Baoqing at his own game." She leaned in, her voice dropping. "You're here for A Xin, aren't you?"
Wu Yifan's grip on his glass tightened. "You know him?"
"Everyone knows A Xin—Qian's right hand. Until recently." She sighed. "He called earlier. Said to expect a guest. Asked me to keep an eye out." Her gaze softened. "He's in a bad way, you know. Loyalty's a heavy chain when the man you serve turns on you."
Wu Yifan thought of A Xin's text, of the risk he was taking meeting here. "Where is he?"
"Upstairs. Room 207." Su Mengjie nodded toward a rickety staircase in the back. "He's been waiting. Nervous, I think. Not that he'd admit it."
Wu Yifan finished his drink, setting the glass down. "Thanks, Su."
"Careful, Wu Yifan," she said, her tone serious. "Qian's men are everywhere. If they catch wind of this… well. Let's just say Rose Bar's seen enough blood for one week."
He nodded, pushing off the stool. As he headed for the stairs, he felt eyes on him—the drunks, the bar girls, even Su Mengjie, watching from the bar. This was a gamble. A Xin could be lying. He could be leading Wu Yifan into a room full of Qian's enforcers, knives drawn.
But as he climbed the stairs, each creak echoing, Wu Yifan smiled. He'd gambled before. And more often than not, the risk was worth it.
Room 207 was at the end of the hall, its door slightly ajar. Wu Yifan paused, then knocked once.
"Come in."
A Xin's voice, low and tired.
Wu Yifan pushed the door open.
A Xin sat on the edge of a small bed, his back to the door. He turned, and Wu Yifan saw the bandages peeking above his collar, the exhaustion in his eyes.
"Thanks for coming," A Xin said, gesturing to a chair.
Wu Yifan sat, folding his hands. "You wanted to talk. So talk."
A Xin took a deep breath, his gaze steady. "Qian's losing control. The rumors, the mob, the doctor—he's unraveling. And he's taking it out on the people who've stood by him." He leaned forward. "I want to take him down. But I can't do it alone."
Wu Yifan smiled. The gamble, it seemed, had paid off.
"Then let's talk," he said. "About how to bury Qian Baoqing for good."