The smell of the karaoke bar hit them before the music did—a cloying mix of stale beer, industrial-strength air freshener, and the faint, sweet undertone of spilled perfume. The Golden Sun was a tomb with a pulse, its dark, carpeted interior vibrating with the off-key warbling of a drunken businessman in one of the private rooms. It was mid-afternoon, the dead time, and the place felt sad and exposed under the dim, reddish lighting.
Lok strutted in like he owned the place, the bravado from the tea house still propping him up. Kai followed, his movements more measured. Every step sent a dull throb from his shoulder, a constant reminder of the line he was walking. His police-trained eyes scanned the room automatically: two exits, including the one they came in through. A bored bartender polishing a glass. A few hostesses in sequined dresses clustered at the end of the bar, their laughter sounding as tired as they looked.
The manager, a balding, harried-looking man named Mr. Cheung, emerged from a back office. His smile was a nervous, practiced twitch that didn't reach his eyes. "Lok! My friend! To what do I owe the pleasure so early?"
"The pleasure," Lok said, slapping a hand down on the sticky bar top, "is all yours, Cheung. We're here to settle your account. The management fee. You're behind."
Mr. Cheung's smile tightened. "Ah, yes, of course. Business has been… slow. The tourists, you know? Maybe next week—"
"Next week is now," Lok interrupted, puffing out his chest. He was trying to sound like Sai Lo, but it came out as a pale imitation, a boy playing at being a gangster. "Five thousand. Now."
Kai watched the manager's face. He saw the fear, yes, but underneath it, a flicker of resentment. This was a man being squeezed from all sides, and Lok's performance was just another pressure point. This wasn't about justice or even enforcement; it was about extraction.
"Please, Lok," Cheung whispered, leaning closer. "I have the rent due tomorrow. I can give you two thousand today. The rest next week, I swear on my mother's grave."
Lok glanced back at Kai, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. This was the part the manuals didn't cover. What happened when the threat didn't immediately work?
Kai stepped forward. He didn't look at Lok. He kept his gaze on Mr. Cheung, his voice low and even, devoid of Lok's false bluster. "Mr. Cheung. We're not here to negotiate. We're here to collect. Five thousand." He let a silence hang in the air, filled only by the terrible singing from the private room. "The Wo Shing protects this place. We make sure the 18K doesn't walk in here and smash your bottles, harass your customers. That protection isn't free. And it isn't flexible."
He wasn't just repeating a demand; he was reframing it. He was speaking the language of transaction, the same language Mister Wong understood. He saw Cheung's shoulders slump. The man was defeated.
"Let me… let me see what I have in the safe," he murmured, turning towards his office.
Lok shot Kai a look of pure relief and triumph. "See? You just have to be firm with these people."
But as Mr. Cheung disappeared, the main door to the bar swung open. Three men walked in, their postures immediately marking them as out of place. They didn't have the loose-limbed gait of tourists or office workers. They moved with a coiled, territorial swagger. They were from the 18K.
The leader, a man with a snake tattoo peeking out from his collar, grinned when he saw Lok. "Well, well. If it isn't the Wo Shing's little errand boy. Collecting the rent?"
Lok froze, the color draining from his face. "This is Wo Shing territory, Fu. You know that."
"Territories change," Fu said, his eyes flicking to Kai, assessing the new face. "Maybe we're here for a drink."
Mr. Cheung emerged from the office with a thick envelope, his eyes widening in terror at the new arrivals. He stood frozen, caught between two fires.
This was the test. Not from Wong or Sai Lo, but from the world itself. Kai felt the shift in the room. The calculus of the situation changed instantly. It was no longer about collection; it was about dominance.
Fu reached for the envelope in Cheung's hand. "I'll take that. Consider it your first payment to your new management."
"Don't touch it," Kai said. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the tension like a knife.
Fu stopped, his smile turning nasty. "And who are you?"
"He's with me," Lok said, his voice regaining a shred of its earlier force.
Fu laughed and took a step toward Kai, his two lackeys fanning out beside him. "I wasn't talking to you, errand boy."
Kai's mind was clear, cold. His right arm was a liability, but his legs, his left arm, his balance—they were all fully operational. He saw the angles. The bar stool to his left. The wet spot on the floor near Fu's right foot. He calculated the distance, the timing. A fight was inevitable. The only variable was how it started.
"Walk away," Kai said, making it sound like a final offer, not a plea. "This money belongs to the Wo Shing. This place belongs to the Wo Shing."
Fu's answer was a lightning-fast grab for Kai's injured shoulder.
It was exactly what Kai had anticipated. He didn't try to block with his bad arm. Instead, he dropped his weight, letting the grabbing hand slip past its target, and simultaneously drove the hardened edge of his left palm into the nerve cluster on the inside of Fu's extended elbow. There was a sharp, sickening crack, not of bone, but of hyper-extended joint and shattered nerve.
Fu screamed, a high-pitched sound of pure shock and agony, his arm hanging uselessly. The two lackeys lunged.
Time seemed to slow. Kai pivoted on his back foot, using the momentum to drive a savage side kick into the lead lackey's knee. He felt it buckle sideways with a nauseating pop. As the man crumpled, Kai grabbed the bottle of beer from the terrified bartender's hand. In one fluid motion, he smashed it against the bar and thrust the jagged, glittering remains towards the throat of the final thug, stopping a millimeter from his skin.
The man froze, his eyes wide with terror, a single trickle of blood welling where the glass just touched him.
The entire confrontation had taken less than ten seconds.
The bar was silent, save for Fu's whimpering and the oblivious, tinny love song still playing from the private room.
Kai, breathing heavily, his shoulder screaming in protest, looked at the third thug. "Tell Mad Dog Kwok," he said, his voice a low, venomous whisper, "that the Wo Shing has a new dog catcher. And his name is Jin Kai."
He jerked his head, and the man scrambled back, dragging his two incapacitated comrades towards the door.
Kai turned back to a petrified Mr. Cheung. He took the envelope from the man's limp hand. He didn't count it. He just slipped it into his jacket.
"Your protection is confirmed," Kai said to the shaking manager. Then he looked at Lok, whose mouth was hanging open. "Let's go."
They walked out into the fading afternoon light. Lok was buzzing, a torrent of excited words tumbling out. "Did you see that? You broke his arm! You took out three of them! Mad Dog Kwok will hear about this for sure!"
Kai didn't answer. He flexed his left hand, the knuckles sore from the impact. He could still feel the precise, brittle sensation of the beer bottle breaking. He had done it. He had passed the test. He had secured the money and established his name with a single, brutal act.
But as he walked, the weight of the envelope in his pocket felt heavier than any weapon. It wasn't just money. It was a down payment on his soul, and he had just paid it in full.