The rain began in earnest, a steady, soaking drizzle that darkened the grey rocks and pattered against the broad leaves of the banana trees. Kai remained motionless in his hiding spot, the cold dampness seeping through his windbreaker, mirroring the chill that had taken root in his soul. The image of the boy—Chan's grandson—was burned onto the back of his eyelids. The easy, unthinking violence that Mister Wong had ordered was now impossible. It was no longer an abstract test of loyalty; it was a concrete, monstrous act.
He watched the cove for a long time after Chan and the boy had left, the warehouse standing silent and empty. His mind, which had been a storm of chaotic conflict, began to settle into a cold, clear focus. The mission parameters had irrevocably changed. Failure to kill Chan would likely mean his own death at the hands of the Wo Shing. But completing the task was unthinkable. There was only one path forward, a path of immense, personal risk. He had to find another way to satisfy Wong.
He waited until the twilight began to deepen, the grey sky bleeding into a bruised purple. The lights in the distant village winked on, tiny jewels in the gathering gloom. He made his way down the path, his footsteps silent on the wet pavement. He didn't approach the warehouse directly. Instead, he circled around, moving through the trees and scrubland until he came to a small, single-story house set back from the water. It was modest, with a well-tended vegetable garden out front and a light glowing in the window. Through the curtains, he could see the silhouette of the boy sitting at a table, likely doing homework. Chan's silhouette moved in the kitchen.
Kai took a deep breath, the damp air filling his lungs. He walked to the front door and knocked, three firm, deliberate raps.
The movement inside stopped. A moment later, the door opened a crack, the chain still on. Chan's face appeared in the gap, wary and suspicious. He was still in his work clothes, smelling of fish and the sea. "Yes? What do you want?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Mr. Chan," Kai said, his voice low and steady. He kept his hands visible, non-threatening. "My name is Jin. I'm here from Hong Kong. From the Wo Shing Society. We need to talk about your debt."
The fear in Chan's eyes was instant and profound. It was the look of a man who had been waiting for this knock on the door for a long time. He glanced back into the house, towards his grandson. "Not here," he whispered urgently. "Not now."
"Now," Kai said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We can talk here, on your step, or we can go down to your warehouse. But we talk now."
With a trembling hand, Chan slid the chain off and opened the door. He stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him to block the view and the sound from inside. The rain misted around them.
"Please," Chan said, his voice cracking. "I just need more time. The fishing has been bad. The weather… I have the boy to look after."
"The debt is fifteen thousand dollars," Kai stated, repeating Wong's figure. He watched Chan's face crumple. "The society does not grant extensions. The time for payment is now."
"I don't have it," Chan pleaded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I can maybe give you two thousand. It's all I have. Take it. Please."
This was the moment. Kai took a step closer, invading the old man's space. He didn't do it with aggression, but with intensity, forcing Chan to meet his eyes. "They didn't send me here for a partial payment, Mr. Chan. They didn't send me here just for the money."
The unspoken meaning hung in the damp air between them. Chan understood. The color drained from his face, and he looked like he might be sick. He leaned back against the wall of his house for support.
"My grandson…" he whispered, a broken sound.
"I saw him," Kai said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming almost confidential. "That is the only reason we are having this conversation. I am giving you a chance. One chance."
Chan looked up, a flicker of desperate hope in his terrified eyes.
"You have nothing here," Kai continued, his gaze sweeping over the simple house. "But you have a boat. You have knowledge of the water. The society has a shipment. Small, high-value electronics. It needs to be moved from Lantau to a contact in Zhuhai, tomorrow night. No questions asked. You do this, and your debt is cleared. All of it."
It was a complete bluff. He had no authority to offer such a deal. He was inventing a smuggling run on the spot, creating a threadbare lifeline for this man and his grandson. If Chan agreed, Kai would have to go back to Wong and somehow sell this alternative, to present Chan not as a failed asset to be liquidated, but as a potentially useful, repentant one. It was a monumental risk.
Chan stared at him, confusion and suspicion warring with his desperate hope. "Why? Why would you do this?"
"Because a dead man pays no debts," Kai said, repeating the same logic he'd used with Sai Lo, but now it felt hollow. The real reason was standing inside the house, doing his homework. "And a useful man is more valuable than a dead one. Do we have an agreement?"
He was pressing, hard. He needed a commitment before Chan had too long to think, to see the gaps in this hasty, desperate plan.
Chan looked back at his front door, at the thin, yellow light spilling out onto the wet ground. He looked at the man in front of him, who offered not a fist, but a frayed rope. He had no other choice.
"Yes," he breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. "Yes. I will do it."
"Good," Kai said. He gave Chan terse, fabricated details—a time, a vague location in Lantau, a description of a fictional contact. "Be there. If you fail, or if you speak of this to anyone, there will be no second conversation. Do you understand?"
Chan nodded vigorously, his head bobbing like a fishing float in the waves. "I understand. Thank you. Thank you."
Kai didn't acknowledge the gratitude. It felt like a stain. He simply turned and walked back into the rain, leaving the old man standing on his doorstep, shivering with relief and fear.
As he trudged back towards the ferry pier in the darkness, the weight on his shoulders was different now. It was no longer the weight of an impending murder, but the crushing burden of a promise he had no power to keep. He had saved a life tonight, but he had potentially signed his own death warrant. He had to go back to Kowloon and lie to the most dangerous and perceptive man he had ever met. The ghost had chosen a side, and in doing so, had stepped from the shadows directly into the line of fire.