The restaurant's interior hit Tòumíng like a wall of heat and cigarette smoke. Red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, their light doing little to brighten the dark wood paneling and shadowy corners. A few late night diners sat scattered at tables, their conversations dying as he stumbled through the door. They knew why he was here. Everyone knew.
The bar ran along the left side of the room, bottles of expensive liquor lined up behind it like soldiers. And there, perched on a stool with his broad back to the entrance, sat Hǔtān.
Even from behind, he was unmistakable. Shirtless as always, the massive tiger tattoo dominated his entire back, the beast's mouth open in a silent roar. But it was the detail that made everyone remember it. The price tag inked onto the tiger's head, the numbers clear even in the dim light. One billion won. A statement of worth. A promise of violence.
Hǔtān never spoke. Not to collect debts, not to give orders, not even to threaten. He didn't need to. His silence was more terrifying than any words could be.
Tòumíng's legs carried him forward before his brain could catch up. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he ran toward the bar, fumbling in his pocket for the crumpled bills.
"I have it, I have most of it," the words spilled out of him in a rush. "Twenty-eight thousand, I sold everything, I have twenty-eight thousand right here."
Hǔtān didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him at all. He lifted a glass of something amber to his lips and drank slowly, deliberately.
"Please, I just need one more day. One day and I can get the rest, I swear. There's quartz in the mine, I know where it is, I can smuggle more out tomorrow and sell it and have the money by tomorrow night, I promise."
Nothing. Not even a flicker of movement beyond the glass being set back down on the bar with a soft clink.
Tòumíng's knees hit the floor. The hard wood sent pain shooting up his legs but he barely felt it. "Please. I'm begging you. I sold my phone, my TV, every piece of clothing I owned. I have nothing left. Just give me one more day. Twenty-four hours. I'll get you the money."
The bartender, wiping down glasses at the far end of the bar, suddenly found something very interesting to do in the back room. The few remaining diners stood and left, coins clinking on tables as they paid and hurried out. Within seconds, the restaurant had emptied except for Tòumíng, Hǔtān, and the shadows in the corners that Tòumíng was beginning to realize weren't shadows at all.
"I'm nineteen years old." His voice cracked. "This debt, it isn't even mine. My parents, they tried, they really tried but the interest kept growing and growing and they couldn't do it anymore and they died and now it's mine and I'm trying, I swear I'm trying, but I can't keep up. The payments are too much. Please, just give me a break. One extension. One chance."
Hǔtān reached for his glass again. The tiger on his back seemed to ripple as his muscles moved.
"You have to understand, I work twelve hours in the mine every single day. Twelve hours breathing in dust and coal, breaking my back, and it's still not enough. The math doesn't work. It will never work. The interest grows faster than I can pay and I'm drowning and I just need one day to breathe."
Still nothing.
Desperation clawed at Tòumíng's throat. "My mother hung herself in our room. My father jumped from the factory roof. I found him. I was the one who found him and cleaned up and dealt with the police and the debt collectors who showed up before his body was even cold. I was sixteen. Sixteen years old and suddenly I owed hundreds of thousands of won to people I'd never met."
Hǔtān set his glass down and reached for a cigarette from the pack on the bar.
"Please." Tòumíng's voice dropped to a whisper. "Please just look at me. Just acknowledge that I'm here, that I'm trying. I brought twenty-eight thousand won. That's almost all of it. Doesn't that count for something? Doesn't effort mean anything?"
The cigarette was lit. Smoke curled up toward the ceiling.
Something inside Tòumíng snapped. Three years of this. Three years of scraping and begging and selling and starving. Three years of watching this man's back, of talking to someone who never responded, of being treated like he was less than human.
"You're a greedy bastard." The words came out before he could stop them, panic making them tumble over each other in a sputtering rush. "You extort children, you bleed people dry, you take everything and it's never enough, you're just a greedy, heartless piece of—"
His hands flew to his mouth but it was too late. The words hung in the air like smoke, impossible to take back.
"I'm sorry." He immediately pressed his forehead to the floor. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I'm just scared, I'm terrified, please, I'm sorry, forgive me, I'll get the money, I'll find a way, please."
For the first time since Tòumíng had entered, Hǔtān moved. He stood slowly, unhurried, the bar stool scraping against the floor. Even hunched over on the ground, Tòumíng could sense the man's size. Hǔtān was massive, over six feet of solid muscle, each movement deliberate and controlled.
Tòumíng kept his forehead pressed to the floor, his entire body shaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please."
A pair of expensive leather shoes entered his field of vision. Hǔtān stood over him, silent as always. Tòumíng could feel the weight of his gaze, could imagine those cold eyes staring down at the pathetic figure collapsed at his feet.
Then came the snap. A single sharp crack of fingers that echoed through the empty restaurant like a gunshot.
Hǔtān turned and walked away, his footsteps steady and even as he headed toward a door at the back of the restaurant.
They came from everywhere at once. Four men, emerging from the corners and booths where they'd been waiting. Tòumíng barely had time to look up before the first kick caught him in the ribs, lifting him off the ground and sending him sprawling.
"No, wait, please—"
A fist wrapped in brass knuckles slammed into his jaw. The crack was audible, bone breaking, and suddenly Tòumíng couldn't close his mouth right. Blood filled it, hot and coppery, spilling down his chin.
He tried to curl into a ball but hands grabbed him, hauling him up. The first knife came from the left, punching into his thigh. The pain was white-hot, exploding through his entire leg. He screamed, or tried to, but his broken jaw wouldn't work right and it came out as a gurgling moan.
Another knife, the right leg this time. The blade went deep, hit something important, and his leg stopped working entirely. He collapsed but they held him up, kept him upright for the beating.
Brass knuckles to the ribs. Something cracked, gave way, and breathing became agony. Each gasp felt like knives in his chest.
More stabs. His legs were on fire, warm blood soaking through his pants, pooling on the floor. How many times had they stabbed him? Three? Five? He couldn't count anymore, couldn't think past the pain.
They dropped him and the kicks started. Heavy boots slamming into his back, his stomach, his chest. That broken rib shifted, ground against something, and Tòumíng's vision went white.
A boot came down on his head. Once. Twice. The world tilted sideways, sounds becoming muffled and distant. Blood ran into his eyes. Or maybe those were tears. He couldn't tell anymore.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was Hǔtān, standing in the doorway to the back room, watching with those cold, dead eyes. Then another snap of fingers, sharp and final.
The beating stopped.
Hands grabbed him again but he couldn't feel them anymore. Couldn't feel anything except a distant floating sensation, like he was being pulled underwater. Voices above him, muffled and far away. The smell of garbage and rotting food.
They lifted him and threw him and for a moment he was flying. Then he hit something hard, something that gave way beneath him, and the stench became overwhelming. Garbage. A dumpster.
He tried to move but nothing worked. His legs were dead weight, useless. His jaw hung at an angle that wasn't right. Each breath was a struggle, air wheezing through damaged ribs.
The lid slammed shut above him, cutting off what little light remained.
Darkness. Complete and total.
Tòumíng lay in the garbage, bleeding, broken, and utterly alone. Somewhere far away, a clock struck midnight.