So this is how it’s going to end. A whimper and a bang all in one.
Better — I guess — than getting made into fish chum, piece by bloody piece. But only just.
Five…
For some reason, I thought I’d be seeing flashes right now. Scenes from my childhood maybe. Running around the Grand Aquarium with Hiro: my going gape-eyed at the electric eels; his reciting the scientific Latin names for every species he saw. Or making model airplanes with my grandfather.
Four…
There are flashes, but they aren’t pieces of my past. Instead, I’m on a beach and my arm is wrapped around Mei Yee’s shoulder, and we’re staring far off across the waters. And Jin Ling is beside us, tossing shells into the waves. Not my past but my future. The one that’s dying with every number that leaves Longwai’s lips.
Three…
I might deserve to die for everything I’ve done. I even wished it in those black rooftop moments, when my legs dangled over the streets and my brother’s final voice called me good and I knew I wasn’t.
But now… now I’m not so sure Hiro was wrong. Now I want to live.
How’s that for irony?
Two…
I shut my eyes.
One…
The New Year
DAI
The shot sounds all wrong. It should be loud, clean. Like the one that went into my shoulder — cracking through the gun’s chambers like a lone lightning bolt. Tearing time and matter apart in slow motion.
Instead, it’s muted. Like a firecracker being crushed under someone’s boot. An echo without fire or flare.
And there’s no punch. No new pain taking root under my skin. Just my shoulder and its steady, reliable throb. The one that lets me know the blood in my veins is moving. Still inside me.
My eyes open. I’m still standing. My shoulder is still meat-mushed and throbbing. The cinches of my hoodie are still tight around my throat. Longwai is still standing in front of me, but his pistol has lost its resolve. The O is no longer marking my forehead. It’s shifted, just like the drug lord’s attention. He’s looking over his shoulder, at the open yawn of the door. More shots pop through the dark, and screams tumble up the stairs.
The raid has started.
“What is this?” Longwai’s question drifts through the open door, becomes lost in the growing tempest of noise.
The knife. I don’t wait. I lunge with everything left in my body and grab the ornate, curved blade by its hilt. It’s an old ceremonial piece, more for show than for actual cut and slice.
“What the hell is th—" Longwai is just turning back when I make contact. I throw myself into him, good side first, trying my hardest to bring him down. The drug lord is more solid than I expect, like his lounge slippers are actually cemented to the floor. He stays standing, but the gun hits the floor, spinning like a game-show wheel.
I land back on my feet, facing him. Trying to ignore how my right arm is noodle-limp at my side. How Longwai’s gold-capped teeth are glint and snarl, ready to sink into my throat. How the blade in my left hand feels like nothing much.
Especially when I’m not left-handed.
Longwai is a fighter. He moves fast, throws a nasty version of an uppercut. Knuckles already covered in my blood come again for my face. But — this time — there are no ropes. I whip to the side, let him give the air a good thrashing. At the same time, I bring up the knife.
There’s a schick and his black funeral shirt splits. A long cut runs down his right forearm — straight as a plumb line, neat as a surgeon’s work. The red leaves him at the same time as his scream.
An arm for an arm. Now we’re even.
But there are so many things this god of knives and needles has to pay for, so I keep fighting.
I throw myself at him again. He falls — cursing and howling and splintering in pain.
I land on top of him. My shoulder jars on impact; supernovas of pain light my vision. Star trails swim in my eyes, eating away Longwai’s ugly face. I push through them, slide my blade up to the soft, soft skin at the well of his throat. It tangles with his gold-link chain, pulls a whimper out of him.
“It’s over, Longwai.” The growl that leaves my mouth sounds too animal to be mine, but I don’t know who else would be saying these words. “You’re over.”
I’m over, too. They’re here already, pounding up the stairs, filling Longwai’s quarters with their floodlights and screams. They flood the room like locusts — scouring every corner with bright lights and rifles. Inspecting Longwai, the blood-edged knife at his throat, centering on me.
“Police! Drop the knife! Put your hands where we can see them!” someone says as the lights gather on top of me. Even the backs of my eyelids flare orange when I shut them.
I toss the knife to the floor, out of Longwai’s reach. My good hand lifts high over my head. I brace myself. One of the cops grabs my arms and twists them behind me. The clicks and cranks of the handcuffs fill my ears. They close tight around my wrists — cold, metallic destiny.
MEI YEE
The police are emerging from the brothel in ones and pairs. A mere trickle compared with the force that poured in minutes ago, like a broken dam of guns and searchlights. Almost all of them are leading people. Most, like Fung and the Brotherhood and the lounge clients, are in handcuffs. Others, like Yin Yu and Mama-san, are free. Some don’t come out at all.
I don’t see Dai or my sister anywhere. With every strange face that marches through the door, my heart drops another level, like air being slowly leaked out of a balloon.
Please. Don’t let them be dead—I’m not even fully finished with this thought when Dai’s face appears. He’s being pushed out of the brothel, his arms twisted in knots behind his back. His face is twisted, too — pain, pain, pain. I see the cuffs and the policeman prodding him on; panic rises.
I run to the officer. “You’re making a mistake!”
“Stand back,” the policeman says with a stern face, and gives Dai an extra push forward. Hurt and wince flare on my window-boy’s face, make me look closer at his shoulder. The sweatshirt there is tatters, torn and stiff with old blood. Underneath are bandages, white and rust. The same colors as my nautilus.
“No! You don’t understand! He was in there helping. To rescue me.” I move in front of them, blocking Dai’s forced path with my body. “You can’t arrest him.”
The blank wall of the officer’s face gives way to uncertainty. His eyes rove over Dai, and for just a second I believe I’ve convinced him.
“Ah. You found him.” The man from the Old South Gate steps next to me. His hands are shoved far into the pockets of his trench coat. The half-finished cigarette between his lips makes his words mumbly. “I was beginning to think you were a no-show altogether.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” Dai looks from me to the smoking man. His words take on the same sharpness he used when we first met. “I was too busy being tied up and tortured.”
The man sucks on his cigarette. It flares extra bright, like a lone dusk star. “It’s not my fault you got yourself caught. Did you find it?”
Dai shakes his head.
The man with the cigarette stands still for a moment. He exhales: air made of ash and sigh and disappointment. When all the smoke has cleared, he nods at the officer. “If you see Chan, let him know the ledger is still missing. Tell him to keep an eye out for it. Take this kid out with the rest. There’s a warrant for him.”