Chinese New Year

  The wind howled through the tunnel, its cold bite stealing the warmth from my skin. The sky hung heavy, the air thick with the promise of rain—a weight that pressed on my chest. It was the kind of night where the past crept up behind you, wrapping around your throat like a noose. I could still hear their voices, feel their presence—sharp and unsettling, like the last warmth of a once-loved touch.

  But they were gone, and I never got to say goodbye.

  Across town, I stood before an old house, its front porch covered in cobwebs, catching dust. The windows were foggy, almost impossible to see through. I lowered myself onto the creaking floorboards, lit a cigarette, and stared at the overgrown yard. The clouded sky deepened to dark blue, making everything feel unreal, like a fading dream.

  I exhaled the smoke, rubbing my face as I tried to shake off the lingering thoughts. I stubbed out my cigarette and walked toward the door, an old lock hanging loose by the knob. The owner should really lock their property. I used to have a key. Where it went? I couldn’t say. A smile flickered at the corner of my mouth.

  I broke the lock and stepped inside. The air was thick with stale neglect, and the floorboards groaned beneath my weight, a mournful protest against the stillness. I grabbed some spare mags from my stash and put everything back in place.

  As I turned, my eyes caught a frame resting on the desk. Hm. A place of memory. I inhaled the damp air one last time before stepping through the broken door.

  In front of the house, colourful sparks appeared at the edge of the horizon before they faded away.

  ‘Firework?’ I muttered to myself as I walked toward the city.

  Half an hour later, I stepped into Red Light Street. The air was thick with the sharp scent of garlic, fish sauce, and the faint, earthy tang of incense smoke. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting warm light that illuminated the crowds. The streets swirled with bodies, laughter, and the occasional shout of a street vendor calling to their children.

  Everywhere, fireworks echoed in the distance, while a majestic dragon puppet—surrounded by tourists—danced in the moonlight, adding to the festive chaos.

  On either side, restaurants spilt into the narrow space; their facades, painted in bold reds and golds, shimmered beneath the lanterns' glow, while the shadows of diners were cast across the windows. Conversations in a dozen languages filled the air, each word blending together into a cheer that shouted, ‘Chinese New Year!’.

  I kept strolling.

  The crowd began to ease, and the chaos began to fade as I walked into the “Red Light” district.

  Though humanity had risen, placing itself above beasts, it still drowned in lust, shackled to the tainted path of indulgence. The neon lights bled through the smoke in a garish haze, but no amount of colour could wash away the grime that clung to the streets.

  I sighed. But thinking back, I was no better than them—nicotine to keep me sober, blinded by pessimism, addicted to the comfort I longed for. Now I am arrogant…

  Took a turn at a cut-through; I pulled out a piece of paper confirming the location.

  Bishop's task required me to talk to a man named Brass. The folder labelled him as a 'highly dangerous’ individual—one of the biggest weapon dealers in Light City. But it also noted that he was 'negotiable', as the position of a father had softened him.

  I approached the rusty aluminium door, but when I was about to knock, it was already ajar. Something was wrong.

  The door creaked as I pushed it open, the sound too loud in the thick silence.

  Inside, the living room was finely furnished but poorly lit, with only a single lamp casting weak light that barely pushed back the darkness.

  Then, a sickening sound—like the thrusting of a blade into flesh, or meat. It grew louder as I crept deeper into the house, passing a tight staircase.

  A few steps from the kitchen, the stench of rotting blood hit me, making me gag. Then I saw him—a man sitting on the floor, a kitchen knife in hand, stabbing something over and over.

  ‘Mister Brass?’ I called, my hand reaching for the pistol under my coat.

  The figure froze, then snapped his head toward me, eyes wide and unblinking. He didn’t reply. Slowly, he rose to his feet, the knife still clutched in his hand—revealing the bodies of a woman and a little girl in an embrace.

  Blood poured from the torn flesh of the woman’s back, exposing a glimpse of pale ribcage. The little girl’s wide, unblinking eyes were frozen, as if trying to capture every detail of the nightmare that was her final moment. Despite the crimson fluid seeping from her throat, soaking into the fabric of her shirt, her small arms clung tightly to her mother—unwilling to let go.

  ‘Those whispers…’ Mister Brass whimpered, stumbling back before collapsing against an empty wall, his body curling in on itself as if something unseen had cornered him.

  I stood still, my body refusing to move as my heart hammered in my chest, telling me to do something.

  He was on his knees, hands covering his face, yet still clutching the knife in a white-knuckled grip. As his hands lowered, a sinister smile crept onto his face—grinned his teeth like a feral beast. His eyes gleamed with something twisted—fear or madness, it was hard to tell.

  I stepped back as he stood back up again; Brass let out a broken chuckle, dragging the blade against the dining table with a slow, deliberate scrape. He tilted his head, as if listening to something only he could hear.

  ‘No… No!’ he roared.

  The table flipped, sending dinnerware crashing to the ground in a violent clatter. His chest heaved, his grip tightening around the knife. Then, his voice softened, trembling with terrible joy.

  ‘Ah… so it’s true,’ he murmured, his eyes wild. ‘The Lord had left us… Leaving us all despite what we’ve worshipped.’

  He lurched; his body swayed like a lifeless puppet with sagging strings. ‘If that is so… I am freed. Freed from what Will he held over me.’

  He ended with an inhuman, terrifying laugh. He launched himself toward me with the knife.

  The gun kicked back, the crack of the shot shattering the air. His body jolted—stopped—and lurched forward again. Blood spread across his stomach. He didn’t flinch.

  Crack—my shot rumbled again—blending with the distant firework. His leg crumpled.

  He collapsed on one knee, arm trembling as he kept crawling, trying to reach me—crack—his head snapped back. This time the body stilled, only the blood that slowly flooded the floor.

  It’s over.

  I exhaled slowly, pressing the gun slide against my forehead. Then I sank into the chair beside the overturned table.

  The cold metal settled against my skin, seeping into my mind, calming my thoughts. It was strangely comforting and oddly familiar—like a cool hand resting on my forehead, checking for fever.

  Was this really worth it? A path where the lines blurred, where nothing was ever black or white—just… a job.

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  I didn't mind killing someone. But experiencing death? It was different.

  I slid the gun deep under my coat, glanced at the corpses again, and began to search around. How am I supposed to explain this now?

  The horror of the scene spread across the floor. I lowered myself to one knee and slowly reached for his pockets. But then I realised—if there was something valuable or intel, he wouldn’t be hiding it in his casual clothes.

  I drew the pistol back into my hand, gripping it tight, and quietly moved toward those doors—clearing them one by one until the last. A scent of wilted flowers and firewood; soaked old books, but underneath it, something else lingered—thin, metallic. Too cold, as if left rusting in the rain.

  My chest tightened as the air pressed down, a slow burn lingering in my nose. My heart pounded—not with panic, but with something quieter, something waiting. My head turned light, my body swaying ever so slightly, as if the ground itself had shifted beneath me.

  I gasped, pulling myself back, tucking my coat and covering my mouth. I sniffed, taking a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

  A paper-towered desk with a reading lamp; next to it was a fractured body mirror, its shards scattered on the ground; opposite it, a set of drawers leaning against the wall. Inside, the air was even thicker; the smell lingered like the soaked rain.

  Behind the desk, an envelope full of cash lay on the floor—but what caught my eye was the piece of paper beside it. I picked it up and slipped it under my coat. As I rose, something else caught my attention: a cylinder container with a black cap, lying just beneath the desk.

  I grabbed it and stepped out of the door. Outside, I sucked in a breath of cold air. The container was still in my hand—marked all over with the organisation’s symbol. What the hell is this? I shoved it into my pocket and dialled the company.

  It entered voicemail.

  I said to the speaker, ‘Need a carrier here in Red Light Street.’ And hung up.

  After the call to the company, I slipped through the alley and onto Red Light Street. Rain stitched the smoke into the air—rich with grilled meat and charred spice—yet the crowd moved like nothing could touch them. Faces lit by neon, boots splashing through puddles, laughter rising like steam.

  A few steps away from the entryway.

  A hand gripped my shoulder, yanking me off balance. Instinctively, I drew my pistol, but before I could fire, a fist crashed into my jaw, knocking the gun from my hand. Another blow hammered into my ribs, sending a shockwave through my chest.

  I staggered, coughing, each breath sharp, burning.

  Then, two feet collided with my chest, sending me flying backward. I slammed into the pavement, skin scraping as I skidded to a halt, rain splattering across my face.

  I pushed myself up, spitting blood and rain. ‘Shit.’ My ribs groaned as I tried to stand.

  I weaved through the dense crowd, slipping between drunken festival-goers and flashing neon lights. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the greasy scent of fried street food, mingling with the cold bite of rain. Firecrackers popped in the distance, masking the sound of my hurried steps.

  I leaned against a stall, breathing, trembling. My vision blurred, the edges of the world fading. The picture of the little girl clung to her mother, her eyes staring into my soul. They weren’t just eyes—they burned, like the weight of a thousand untold secrets pressed into my chest.

  In a blink, one of the brothers' voices pulled me back to the surroundings.

  ‘This is what those old asses struggled to deal with in the past? Pathetic.’

  The pounding in my chest slowed, but the burn didn’t leave. I gritted my teeth, pressing a hand to my ribs, my breath shallow. My gaze fixed on the shifting crowd, the murmurs of voices growing distant.

  Then—footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. One of the brothers. Getting closer.

  II lunged, the karambit slicing through the rain. He jerked back, seized my arm, and shoved it upward. A knee hammered into my ribs, sending a shock of pain through me.

  I hit the ground again.

  ‘Tch, one of the most wanted—the name hanging for so long, just waiting to be avenged.’ The brother grinned, licking his lips. ‘What’s wrong? Scared? Don’t worry—every piece of you will be a worthy exchange for a red envelope this New Year.’

  I pushed myself up, breath quavering.

  Then I dashed, closing the distance and lowering my body as my arm snapped upward with the karambit.

  He snapped his hand out, catching my wrist. His other clamped down on my forearm, stopping the blade inches from flesh.

  I flicked his hand off—snapped the blade back—then hooked it deep, burying it into his upper arm, punching through the red fabric of his festive shirt.

  A sharp palm struck his throat. The impact sent him stumbling back as I ripped the blade free, tearing the wound wider—blood streaking down his sleeve.

  He smirked, shaking the blood from his arm. ‘Not bad.’

  He surged forward, throwing a straight punch. I shoved my arm out, deflecting it with a quick, outward motion. Another strike—this time a low right uppercut. I twisted my body, bringing my elbow down to intercept, redirecting the blow before it could land. He swept low—I stepped back. He spun mid-air, whipping around with a kick aimed at my ribs.

  Pain burst through my arms. I slipped, boots screeching on the wet ground.

  The moment my balance wavered, he pressed forward—sharp, relentless.

  A jab—I knocked it aside. A hook—I braced, my forearm absorbing the impact. Another kick snapped toward my leg—I pivoted, turning my knee in just in time.

  Then—an opening.

  Then, a punch came in too deep; I stepped in. My hand flicked out, deflecting it aside.

  The karambit darted forward; he tried to row my arm down, but I twisted my body—my left fist crashed into the centre of his chest with force.

  Thud.

  The force sent him stumbling, coughing against the blow.

  I gasped for air, my chest heaving with the strain, ribs aching with each breath.

  The brother exploded forward again—a sharp strike, driving straight. I shoved it aside and dipped my head, the air slicing past just inches from my face. My other hand lashed out, karambit flashing—blade tearing across his face.

  His head snapped to the side.

  I pressed in. Threw a straight-in strike—he parried it aside. The karambit's curve swung for his throat—he leaned back, dodging it by millimetres. I dropped low—my shin slammed into his gut, knocking the breath from him—my knee drove hard, crushing into his chest.

  The Chinatown Brother staggered back, clutching his ribs, breath ragged.

  I didn’t wait.

  I snapped the karambit forward, driving it into flesh—a wet, tearing sound as it sank in. I ripped it free, my fist already following—a cross cracked against his jaw. Blood spattered onto the pavement, swirling into the rain.

  He reeled back, barely dodging another slash. Then, with a snarl, he threw his whole, blood-soaked body forward—one last desperate attempt to grab me.

  I ducked.

  My arm shot up—knife driving deep through soaked fabric, sinking into flesh.

  The brother choked—a sharp, guttural sound.

  I twisted. The blade hooked through muscle, tearing a deep horizontal cut.

  The brother froze, a shudder running through him. Blood spilled from the gash, mixing with the rain. He gagged, stumbling back before collapsing.

  The body hit the pavement. Blood pooled, swirling into the rain.

  I exhaled, flicking the karambit. Drops of red spattered the pavement.

  Then, I felt a presence.

  I felt it before I saw it.

  No voice of warning.

  I turned.

  The second brother stood a few feet behind me, rain slicking his dark jacket. His gaze flicked to the corpse, expression unreadable. His hand curled around a tanto grip behind his back.

  Then, like a gunshot—

  He unsheathed and launched forward.

  I barely tilted my head, the slash cutting past the edge of my cheek.

  My hand snapped—gripping his wrist. I swung the karambit toward his head—he ducked. The blade came around, pressing against his grip. I pulled to the side—his tanto slipped from his hand.

  A punch—a straight, full-body strike. He stepped in, snapping a kick—I caught it in the arm hinge, gritting my teeth at the impact.

  But as his foot tapped the ground—he twisted, a fetal back kick hit right into my ribs.

  I felt like throwing up—something cracked inside. My stance broke for half a second—just long enough.

  A roundhouse kick doubled down to the ribs.

  I staggered back—then lost my footing. My heel slipped against the slick pavement, and in the next instant—my back hit the ground, images started to faint.

  But then my hand hit something cold—the gun.

  The second brother closed in, fury blinding him to everything but me—his foot lifted for another stomp.

  My fingers tightened around the gun. My breath slowed, steadying, despite the pain still shooting through my body.

  He didn’t notice.

  The gun snapped up—

  No hesitation this time...

  A sharp crack split the air, blending with the distant fireworks. The shot echoed, muffled only by the pounding rain.

  The second brother stopped mid-step. His eyes widened, a brief flicker of confusion before his body crumpled.

  One bullet.

  His head snapped back. The wet, crimson spray was lost in the rain—but the impact was clear.

  The brother’s body hit the pavement with a dull thud.

  I exhaled, slowly pushing myself up, trying to stand straight—but my body swayed, tottering like a drunkard, stumbling in the wake of the brutes.

  The gun slipped into its holster. The karambit still clung to my hand.

  I’d done what needed to be done.

  The sound of distant fireworks mingled with the pop of firecrackers, and the drumming of festival music seemed to drown out the memory of the fight.

  Red Light Street remained blissfully unaware of the violence that had just unfolded on its fringes. The neon signs, the bustling food stalls, the scatter of street vendors—everything worked to hide the blood and death behind me.

  People laughed and shouted, their voices rising above the rain. A few drunken tourists stumbled past, smiling, clueless.

  I strolled on, boots splashing through puddles.

  Not far before my body gave in—leaned against a pole.

  The phone slid out again—called for pickup.

  No answer. Just a long, deep tone.

  ‘Need a lift. Red Light Street.’

  I hung up, catching my breath before slowly sinking to the street, sitting down.