Orchard Alley pulsed with dark, restless life at two in the morning, its prime hour. Neon signs glowed brightly through the haze, spilling vibrant pinks and blues across the pavement slick with rain and spilled drinks. Women lingered invitingly by KTV entrances, voices lilting seductively as they enticed passing men. Bars overflowed onto the street, music throbbing, beats reverberating against concrete walls. Patrons stumbled through the alley, their laughter loud, drunken shouts mixing with fragments of broken conversation. Arms looped carelessly around companions or clutched bottles tightly as if afraid to let go.

  At the far corner, an unassuming restaurant sat, lights bright and warm. A few late-night patrons lingered at round banquet tables covered with typical Cantonese fare: glossy roast meats, piles of seafood, bowls of steaming rice. Laughter and clinking dishes filled the air, mingling with the aromas drifting from the bustling kitchen. Cooks shouted orders, pans hissed and sizzled, steam clouded the air thick with the scent of spices and garlic.

  Behind the kitchen, past the clatter and chaos, stood a narrow doorway marked discreetly with a cleaning symbol. Behind it, the muffled sounds of laughter and mahjong tiles echoed faintly, plastic chips clinking against tables. Cigarette smoke seeped through the cracks, its bitter scent sharp and acrid.

  Outside, headlights sliced sharply through darkness. A white van slowed, idling quietly in front of the restaurant entrance. The sliding door ripped open violently, revealing eight young men in casual clothes—plain t-shirts, worn jeans—but their faces were set hard, eyes cold. Blades glinted sharply under neon lights, machetes gripped tightly in eager fists.

  They burst from the van, swift and merciless.

  Chaos erupted instantly. One of the men slammed his machete into a patron sitting near the entrance. Blood sprayed across pristine tablecloths, diners screamed, dishes shattered against the floor.

  “Move!” someone shouted harshly.

  Another attacker swung his blade at the nearest waiter, slicing deep into his arm. The waiter collapsed, screaming, clutching at his wound. Patrons overturned tables, scrambling desperately away, slipping in pooling blood. Shouts blended into shrill cries as the assailants stormed through the dining area, their path cutting relentlessly toward the kitchen doors.

  Pans crashed loudly, steam billowed into the air, cooks backed away hastily as the attackers charged past them, ignoring everything in their path. They reached the staircase, pounding down two steps at a time, boots echoing heavily off concrete.

  At the bottom, one man didn’t hesitate. His foot slammed into the door with a powerful kick, splintering the lock. The door burst inward with a resounding crash.

  Gunshots cracked sharply from inside. Chips scattered, mahjong tiles flew through smoky air. Men shouted warnings, scrambling for weapons or cover. But the attackers were already inside, blades slicing without mercy. Screams rose, sharp and desperate, mingling with curses and cries of pain.

  One gambler pulled a pistol from beneath the table, firing wildly. A bullet grazed an attacker’s shoulder, but the man kept charging, machete raised, cutting the shooter down swiftly. Blood pooled rapidly, seeping into scattered cash and tiles. Panic surged as victims rushed toward exits that didn’t exist, only to be cut down mid-flight, their blood marking the walls in vivid streaks.

  The attackers showed no hesitation, no remorse, no mercy—just ruthless efficiency. One slashed through a fleeing gambler’s back, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Another cornered a dealer, machete crashing down repeatedly until movement ceased.

  In moments, the violence was done. Bodies from both sides lay sprawled across blood-soaked carpet. Tables overturned, mahjong tiles scattered like broken teeth. A few of the remaining young men that had charged in departed as swiftly as they arrived, slipping away in the white van into the night.

  This brutal violence was not random; it was retaliation. Bodies had been piling up lately, Red Phoenix members falling one after another, all traced back to Black Lotus operations. A group of young men had been hunting for Sammy Kwan, their ruthless determination led by a scar-faced youth with death burning in his eyes.

  This was the start of a war that had long simmered beneath the surface, a war that Zee had wanted all along.

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  Above the violence and chaos spreading through San Francisco’s underbelly, Zee lounged comfortably in his luxurious penthouse office, high above the city’s glittering lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view, the city’s wealth and power laid bare beneath him. He reclined casually in a leather chair behind a polished mahogany desk, laptop open before him, a GhostWire call active on its screen.

  Several anonymous icons filled the call, their authoritative voices speaking in Cantonese.

  “They’ve started hitting some of our shops, gambling dens, and KTVs,” Zee reported calmly, voice devoid of any urgency. “Deaths on both sides. Police are handling it, and we’ve bribed who we can.”

  Jo’s voice emerged, measured and grave. “Impact has been high. We’re down about eleven percent this week.”

  A cold voice interrupted sharply, “And the kid who started it? Isn’t he one of yours, Zee?”

  Zee sighed convincingly, feigning annoyance. “An idiot, I’m sorry. I told him to stay out, but he didn’t listen. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Make sure you do,” came the authoritative reply. “We need to send a clear message that people can’t just act as they please.”

  The call ended abruptly, leaving Zee alone in the quiet. A slow smile spread across his lips, genuine and dark.

  Ah, Vince, you left me such a loyal dog. Now I get to send him back to you.

  *****

  Capturing Lucas had been swift and clinical. Strong as he was, Lucas was just one man. Even with Ryan and Wes stubbornly loyal, they’d been overwhelmed, outnumbered.

  Now, Lucas knelt in a dark, windowless room. Concrete walls radiated cold, the single heavy black door locked tight behind him. He was bruised, beaten, blood crusted on his face, his eyes swollen almost shut. He swayed slightly, but remained stubbornly upright, running on nothing but rage and defiance.

  The door swung open, footsteps echoing on concrete as men dressed in crisp black suits entered. One of them grabbed Lucas roughly by his hair, forcing his head upward, his battered face suddenly illuminated by harsh fluorescent light as it clicked on.

  Jo stepped calmly into the room, immaculate as always, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, crisp white shirt, polished shoes gleaming in stark contrast to the grim surroundings. His eyes held the calm superiority of a man unafraid of consequence, regarding Lucas coldly as a wooden chair was placed before him.

  He sat lazily, crossing his legs, observing Lucas silently. He let the silence settle, let Lucas steep in it so that he could fully realize the gravity of his situation. Not that Lucas needed any reminding.

  After a long pause —

  “You’re an idiot,” Jo stated flatly.

  Lucas glared up through swollen eyes, his jaw stiffening.

  “You started a fucking war for Zee, you know that?” Jo continued, voice edged with irritation.

  Lucas remained silent, breathing slow and labored.

  Jo shook his head, disdain clear. “You kids. So fucking stupid.” He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his knee, studying Lucas carefully. “Ryan tells me…after some persuasion…that you know something more.”

  Lucas paused, eyes flickering briefly, concern breaking through his pain. “Is he dead?”

  Jo smiled thinly. “No, Ryan’s alive. So’s the big guy. But that can change if you decide to keep secrets.”

  Lucas hesitated, calculating his limited options carefully before finally speaking. “Someone blackmailed Sammy Kwan.” His voice was raw. “Someone forced Sammy to attack Vince, and Key has Serena now. Everything points back the murder of Mike Liu. ”

  Jo’s brow furrowed slightly at the unfamiliar name. “Who?”

  One of his men leaned forward, whispering quickly into Jo’s ear. Jo laughed sharply, incredulous. “That? The money washer kid? But that was nothing, years ago. Who the fuck cares about that?”

  Lucas stared evenly, offering nothing more.

  Jo considered him carefully, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Someone capable of blackmailing Sammy repeatedly, someone connected enough to hire Key—that person was interesting. Useful. Black Lotus, and Jo personally, could use such a person. Especially now that Zee was becoming too ambitious, too reckless.

  The war had already begun, unstoppable now. Like a virus, it had to run its course. Zee might have started it, but Jo wouldn’t let him claim it all. He had to play carefully, let Zee overreach, and be there to pick up the pieces when he inevitably stumbled.

  Jo leaned in closer, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “The heads want you dead as an example.”

  Lucas met his gaze defiantly. He didn’t fear death—if anything, it meant joining Vince, probably Serena. And Vivian.

  The thought was darkly soothing to him.

  Jo’s lips curled into a faint smile. “But I can keep you alive.”

  Lucas said nothing.

  Jo continued smoothly, voice steady. “If you find the real person behind this, and bring him to us alive.”

  Lucas scowled darkly. “Why would I?”

  Jo shrugged casually, voice detached. “Rough him up if you want. Fingers, toes. Maybe an eye. Nothing important. But bring him breathing.”

  Lucas said nothing, clearly unconvinced, uncertainty flickering briefly in his eyes.

  Jo’s smirk widened cruelly. “Or don’t you want to? You’d rather die and let this man—who killed your girl—live happily ever after?”

  “She wasn’t my girl,” Lucas’s tight with controlled rage, his eyes suddenly alive with rage, and grief.

  Jo smiled knowingly, cruel amusement glinting in his eyes. “I know. That’s what makes it so pathetic.” He stood, signaling to his men to follow. “I’ll give you some time to think. Tomorrow morning, tell me if you want to live or die.”

  He exited smoothly, footsteps fading as the heavy door swung shut behind him, locking with a heavy, echoing click.

  Lucas remained kneeling in the darkness, his body throbbing with pain, the blood in his mouth sharply metallic. Silence pressed heavily around him, leaving only the dull thudding of his heart and the weight of his choice.