The pain was a rusty nail being slowly hammered into his shoulder joint. Sleep had been a futile exercise in finding a position that didn't feel like a fresh injury. Every time he'd drifted off, the memory of Sai Lo's crushing grip would jolt him awake, his heart thudding against his ribs. When the first grey light of dawn filtered through the dirty window, Kai gave up. He lay on the thin mattress, listening to Lok's steady snores from above, and cataloged his aches. The throbbing shoulder, the bruised ribs, the sore knuckles on his left hand. They were a map of his new life.
Lok eventually stirred, his usual morning groan amplified by yesterday's triumph. "Aiyah, my head… too much excitement," he mumbled, sliding down from the bunk. He saw Kai was already awake and grinned. "You ready for today? Mister Wong! This is it, brother. He only talks to the guys on the way up."
Kai sat up slowly, the movement practiced and careful. "What does he want?"
"Who knows? But it's not a beating, that's for sure. When Wong wants to see you, it means he's thinking about you. That's good." Lok's optimism was a fragile thing, built on a foundation of street-level logic. No immediate violence was always a positive.
Kai wasn't so sure. Being thought about by the intelligent, paranoid White Paper Fan was like being placed under a microscope. One wrong twitch, one misplaced word, and the entire facade could shatter.
He spent the morning cleaning the small apartment, a mindless task to keep his hands busy and his thoughts from spiraling. He scrubbed the single burner on the hot plate, wiped down the grimy fridge, and swept the floor. Lok watched him, amused. "What are you, my wife? Relax. It's just a talk."
But it wasn't. For Kai, this was the first real debriefing of his undercover life, and he was walking into the lion's den utterly alone. He couldn't wire himself. He couldn't take notes. He had to remember everything—the inflections, the pauses, the things left unsaid.
At precisely 1:45 p.m., he left the apartment. Lok had given him hurried directions to a different tea house, this one tucked away in the upper levels of a complex in Jordan, known for its bird market. The air was thick with the chirps and squawks of a thousand caged songbirds, a cheerful, natural sound that felt utterly dissonant with his mission.
The tea house was quieter, more refined than the last. Here, the patrons were older men who sipped their tea and read newspapers, their conversations hushed. Mister Wong sat at a corner table by a window overlooking the crowded market below. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the steam rising from a pot of delicate jasmine tea. He was studying a ledger, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, looking more like a meticulous accountant than a triad advisor.
He didn't look up as Kai approached and stood silently before the table. Kai waited, his hands loose at his sides, his posture respectful but not subservient. The seconds stretched out, filled only by the gentle clink of Wong's pen against the porcelain cup as he made a notation.
Finally, Wong closed the ledger, removed his glasses, and looked up. His magnified eyes were calm, inquisitive.
"Jin Kai. Please, sit."
Kai sat in the wooden chair opposite him.
Wong poured a cup of tea and pushed it across the table. "Jasmine. It is calming for the nerves. You look like you could use it."
"Thank you, sir," Kai said, accepting the cup. He took a small sip. The tea was light and floral, a world away from the bitter pu-erh from their first meeting.
"Sai Lo was impressed with your work at the Golden Sun," Wong began, folding his hands on the table. "Efficient. Brutal. And, most importantly, profitable. You recovered the principal and generated a surplus. That is the foundation of any successful business."
Kai remained silent, waiting. He knew a compliment from a man like Wong was merely the preamble.
"However," Wong continued, his voice dropping slightly, "initiative is a double-edged sword. You told them to deliver a message to Mad Dog Kwok. You put a name to the action. Your name."
"I believed it was important to establish a presence," Kai replied carefully. "To let the 18K know that the Wo Shing is not just a faceless entity. It is made of men they should fear."
Wong considered this, his head tilted. "A interesting philosophy. It creates legends. But legends also make for the easiest targets." He took a slow sip of his tea. "Tell me, Jin Kai. Why did you take the extra fourteen hundred dollars?"
The question landed like a physical blow. Kai kept his face perfectly still, but his mind raced. How did he know? Lok wouldn't have said anything. Had they been followed? Was the bartender an informant?
He had two choices: lie and be exposed, or tell a more dangerous version of the truth.
He chose the latter.
"It was a operational surplus," Kai said, his voice even. "The risk was higher than a standard collection due to the 18K interference. I believed we were entitled to hazard pay. Lok agreed."
Wong's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Hazard pay. I like that. It shows an understanding of value." He paused, letting the tension build again. "Do not lie to me again, Jin Kai. About anything. The money is inconsequential. The deception is not. I need to know the tool in my hand is reliable, not one that will bend or break under pressure."
"It won't," Kai said, meeting his gaze directly.
"Good." Wong leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Then here is your next task. There is a man. A fisherman on Lamma Island. He runs a small warehouse for us, a transfer point for certain… electronic goods. He has become unreliable. He talks too much after he drinks. He owes fifteen thousand dollars. I do not believe he intends to pay."
Kai's blood ran cold. This was different from shaking down a karaoke bar. This was a targeted sanction.
"Your job is to go to Lamma. Collect the money. All of it. And make him understand the finality of his situation. Permanently." Wong's eyes were hard behind the magnification of his glasses. "He has no connection to the 18K. He is a loose end. This is not about territory. It is about hygiene. Do you understand?"
Kai understood perfectly. Mister Wong was ordering him to kill a man. This was the real test. Not of his strength, but of his soul.
He felt the world narrow to this sunlit table, the cheerful birdsong outside the window a cruel joke. Every principle, every oath he had ever sworn, screamed inside him. But the ghost, Jin Kai, had to answer.
He held Wong's gaze, his own eyes revealing nothing of the storm within.
"I understand," Jin Kai said, his voice a hollow echo of his own. "What's his name?"
"Chan. Old Man Chan." Wong sat back, the moment of grim intensity passing as if it had never happened. "Go tomorrow. Take the afternoon ferry. And Jin Kai," he added, as Kai stood to leave. "Do not take Lok. This is a solo assignment."
Kai nodded and walked away, the taste of jasmine tea now bitter on his tongue. He had passed another test, one far more damning than the last. He had just agreed to become a murderer. The weight in his pocket was no longer just the greasy feel of cash; it was the cold, heavy shape of the cross he would have to bear.