The morning after a fight always arrived with a specific, bruised quality. It wasn't just the physical aches—the throbbing in his forearms where the batons had landed, the stinging line across his ribs from the knife, the deep, familiar protest from his shoulder—it was the heavy silence that clung to the air, thick with unspoken things. Lok had barely looked at him since they'd stumbled off the rooftop, leaving the broken men for someone else to find. The awe in his eyes had been replaced by a wary, uncertain distance. He had seen the machine beneath the brother, and he didn't know what to do with that image.
Kai moved through the small apartment like a ghost, the memory of the fight playing over the mundane acts of boiling water for tea and pulling on a clean shirt. Each movement was a reminder. The efficiency of his own violence haunted him. It had been too clean, too instinctual. The police training was supposed to be a tool, but last night it had felt like his entire identity, the cold, hard core of him that had been waiting for a reason to emerge. Jin Kai wasn't just a cover; he was a suit of armor he was welding to his skin.
They were summoned to the mahjong parlour before noon. The usual, sawdust-strewn room was tense and quiet, the games suspended. Sai Lo stood in the center of the room, a mountain of simmering fury. The four attackers from the roof were there, or what was left of them. Two were propped in chairs, faces swollen and bandaged, one with an arm in a sling. The leader sat on the floor, his head wrapped in a bloody bandage, his eyes glazed with pain. The fourth, the one whose neck Kai had broken, was conspicuously absent. The air smelled of blood, antiseptic, and fear.
Sai Lo's eyes, burning with a cold fire, locked onto Kai as he entered. He didn't say a word. He just pointed a thick, accusatory finger at the broken men.
"Mad Dog Kwok's personal guard," Sai Lo finally growled, the sound vibrating through the floorboards. "His best. Not street trash. He sent his best to kill you in your sleep." He took a step forward, looming over Kai. "And you put three of them in the hospital and one in the morgue. By yourself."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of terrifying fact. Lok, standing slightly behind Kai, flinched.
Kai said nothing. He just held Sai Lo's gaze, his own face a carefully neutral mask. Denial was useless. Justification was weakness. In this world, you owned your violence. It was your currency.
Sai Lo stared at him for a long, heart-stopping moment, his jaw working. Then, to Kai's shock, a slow, grim smile spread across the big man's face. It was not a pleasant sight. It was the smile of a shark.
"Good," Sai Lo rumbled. The single word carried the weight of an entire philosophy. He clapped a massive hand on Kai's injured shoulder, but this time it was not a test of pain tolerance; it was a gesture of possession, of approval. "The 18K now know the price of touching what is mine. They sent a message, and you sent it back in pieces." He looked at the broken men with disdain. "Get this garbage out of my sight."
As the injured men were half-dragged, half-carried out, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The fear curdled into a new, potent respect. The low-level members who had been watching now looked at Kai not as Lok's lucky friend, but as a force of nature. A weapon. The legend of the "dog catcher" had just been cemented in blood.
But the true verdict was still to come.
The door to the back room opened, and Mister Wong stood there, framed in the doorway. He hadn't been present for the display. He didn't need to be. He would have already known every detail. His magnified eyes swept over the scene, lingering on the bloodstains on the floor, then settling on Kai. There was no smile, no approval, no fury. There was only that same, unnerving calculation.
He gestured with a slight tilt of his head. "Jin Kai. A moment."
Kai followed him into the back room, the door closing softly behind them, shutting out the world. The room was the same—the green-shaded lamp, the ledger, the scent of old wood and tea. But it felt different. He was different.
Wong did not sit. He stood by his desk, his hands clasped behind his back, looking out the small, grimy window that offered a sliver of the hectic Mong Kok street below.
"The shipment from Lamma was successful," Wong began, his voice as soft and precise as ever. "The asset, Chan, has been reassigned to regular coastal runs. Your assessment of his utility was correct." He turned from the window, his gaze pinning Kai in place. "And now, last night. You have a talent for creating dramatic solutions to complex problems."
Kai remained silent, waiting. He knew a compliment from Wong was merely the hook before the twist.
"It is a double-edged sword," Wong continued, stepping closer. "You have drawn a significant amount of attention. Mad Dog Kwok is not a man who absorbs humiliation. He will escalate. This creates instability. Instability is bad for business."
He paused, letting the criticism hang in the air. Then he picked up his silver pen, tapping it lightly against the ledger. "However… it also demonstrates a rare quality. Initiative, backed by undeniable capability. The society has many soldiers. It has few thinkers who can also act." He finally sat, opening the ledger. "Sai Lo sees a blunt instrument. I see a potential scalpel."
Kai's heart was a drum against his ribs. This was it. The moment he had been working towards, the reason for all the lies and the blood. He was being moved from the street-level brawls into something more strategic.
"Your duties are changing," Wong stated, making another notation. "You will no longer run with Lok's crew on collections. You will report directly to Sai Lo for… special assignments. Enforcement that requires discretion and finality. You will also begin learning the logistics of our import-export operations from the Straw Sandal, Fast Talk Chau. It is time you understood the business, not just the violence that protects it."
It was a promotion. A significant one. He was being pulled into the inner workings, given a glimpse of the machinery. This was the intelligence the police needed. It was everything he had wanted.
And it felt like a death sentence.
"Thank you, sir," Kai said, the words automatic. "I won't disappoint you."
Wong looked up, and for a fleeting second, Kai thought he saw something in those magnified eyes—not warmth, but a spark of intense, clinical interest. "See that you do not. You are dismissed."
Kai walked out of the room, the door feeling like the gate of a prison closing behind him. The noise of the parlour rushed back in. Lok was waiting for him, his expression a tangled knot of concern and curiosity.
"What did he say?" Lok asked, his voice low.
"He's promoting me," Kai said, the truth feeling like a betrayal. "I'm being moved. Reporting directly to Sai Lo."
Lok's face fell, just for a moment, before he forced a smile. "That… that's great, brother! I knew it! This is what we wanted!" But the enthusiasm was brittle. They both knew what it meant. Their partnership was over. Kai was ascending to a different level, and Lok was being left behind in the gritty, dangerous streets.
As they walked out into the blinding afternoon sun, the distance between them was a tangible thing. Lok's jokes felt forced, his laughter a little too loud. Kai was lost in his own thoughts, the weight of Wong's "promotion" heavy on his soul.
He had gotten everything he wanted. He had the trust of the upper echelon. He had access. But the cost was written on Lok's face, in the bloodstains on the rooftop, and in the chilling realization that Mister Wong wasn't just using him; he was sculpting him. He was being pulled deeper into the monster's belly, and the path back to the light was fading with every step he took. The ghost was being given more power, and the man was being buried alive.