The van rattled as it rolled over a patch of broken asphalt. Inside, the boy stirred, his head lifting slightly before he slumped again against the seat.
Lian kept her hands tight on the wheel. Her shoulders ached, the sting of dried sweat and blood clinging to her skin, but her eyes stayed forward. Every intersection felt heavier than the last, as if the night itself pressed down on them.
Kai sat in the back with the boy, holding a bottle of water steady so the child could sip. His voice stayed low, steady, the way you would speak to an animal that had been cornered too long.
“You are safe,” Kai said.
The boy drank, coughed, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He didn’t speak. His eyes shifted toward Lian in the driver’s seat, then back to the floor.
Lian glanced at the rearview mirror. “How old do you think he is?”
Kai shook his head. “Ten, maybe eleven. Hard to tell.”
The boy’s face was sharp with hunger, cheeks sunken, hair matted. Dirt clung to his skin, but his eyes were clear and watchful.
Lian slowed as they reached a row of apartments, dimly lit, clotheslines sagging between balconies. She pulled into the narrow garage beneath their building, the concrete walls stained with oil and mildew.
“Out,” she said softly.
Kai lifted the boy carefully, one hand supporting his thin shoulder. The child stumbled once, then steadied, clinging to Kai’s sleeve as they moved toward the stairwell.
The climb was slow. The boy’s legs shook with each step, and Kai paused often to let him rest. By the time they reached the apartment, sweat ran down the boy’s temple, but he didn’t complain.
Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever. The fan hummed in the corner, the air thick with the same faint detergent and dust. Lian cleared the table, pushing aside their scattered maps and notebooks.
“Sit him here,” she said.
Kai guided the boy onto a chair. His feet barely touched the floor. He kept his hands folded tight in his lap as his eyes darted around the room.
Lian crouched in front of him, voice even. “What’s your name?”
The boy said nothing.
“Name,” she repeated, softer this time.
He swallowed hard. “Jun.”
Kai crouched beside Lian. “Jun. Good. You are safe here.”
Jun nodded once but didn’t meet their eyes.
Lian stood, moving to the small kitchen. She heated rice quickly, the steam filling the cramped room. She placed a bowl in front of the boy, along with a spoon.
He hesitated, eyes flicking from her to the food.
“Eat,” she said.
Jun gripped the spoon with both hands and ate in fast, messy mouthfuls, as if afraid the bowl might disappear. Rice stuck to his cheeks, his breath sharp between bites.
Lian watched him silently. Kai placed another bottle of water beside him, which Jun drank almost as quickly as the food.
When the bowl was empty, he sat back, chest heaving, eyes half-closed.
Lian cleared the dish, rinsing it under the tap. The sound of running water filled the silence.
Kai leaned close to the boy again. “Jun. Do you know where you were before? Who brought you?”
The boy’s small shoulders stiffened. He shook his head quickly, lips pressing shut.
“It’s okay,” Kai said. “Not now. Later.”
Jun nodded slightly, gaze fixed on the table.
Lian dried her hands on a cloth and turned toward the pile of notebooks they had gathered from the warehouse. She spread them out across the desk, flipping pages. Names, numbers, routes—each line scrawled in rough handwriting.
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“Too many to parse by hand,” Kai muttered, pulling his laptop closer. He began typing, feeding information into his system.
Jun shifted in his chair, eyes following the glow of the screen. He stayed silent, but his attention sharpened.
Hours stretched. The boy dozed against the table, arms folded beneath his head. Kai’s fingers kept moving, the sound of keys clicking in rhythm with his breathing.
Finally, he leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Two more addresses. Mong Kok and Sham Shui Po. Both soon.”
Lian closed one of the ledgers with a quiet snap. Her face showed nothing, but her body leaned forward slightly, as if pulled by the words.
Jun stirred, blinking. “Sham Shui Po?” he whispered.
Both siblings turned to him at once.
“You know it?” Lian asked.
The boy hesitated, then nodded slowly.
Lian exchanged a glance with Kai.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
The night wasn’t done with them.
It came quietly at first—a knock at the garage door. Lian froze where she stood by the sink, her hand halfway to the faucet. Kai’s head snapped up from the laptop.
Another knock followed, sharper this time.
Jun’s eyes went wide, his small frame shrinking back against the chair.
Lian moved to the window, peering down into the dark garage. Shadows stretched across the concrete, broken by the glow of a single cigarette ember.
Her voice was flat when she spoke. “They found us.”
Kai closed the laptop in one motion. “How many?”
“Three outside. Maybe more.”
The knock turned into a pounding, fists slamming against metal. Voices shouted in Cantonese, rough and impatient.
Lian pulled a knife from her belt, sliding it into her palm. Kai grabbed a length of steel pipe from beside the door.
Jun pressed himself against the wall, trembling.
The pounding grew louder. Then the lock snapped with a sharp metallic crack, and the door swung open.
Three men stepped inside, rifles raised, boots echoing against the concrete floor.
Lian moved first. She threw the knife, blade spinning before sinking into the nearest man’s throat. He crumpled instantly, blood spraying against the wall.
Kai charged the second, swinging the pipe in a wide arc. Metal slammed against bone, the man’s rifle clattering away as he dropped to his knees.
The third fired wildly, bullets sparking against the concrete. Lian dropped low, sweeping his legs out. He hit the floor hard, and she drove another knife into his chest before he could rise.
Silence lasted only a moment. More footsteps thundered outside, the sound of boots rushing down the stairwell.
“Upstairs,” Kai snapped.
Lian grabbed Jun, pulling him close. His small hands clutched her jacket as they rushed up the narrow stairwell, the sound of gunfire chasing them.
The apartment door banged open as they burst inside. Lian shoved Jun toward the bedroom. “Stay down. Do not move.”
He scrambled under the bed, eyes wide, breath quick.
Kai braced the main door with the desk, shoving it hard against the frame. The wood shook as fists and boots slammed into it.
“They’ll break through,” he said.
Lian’s knives gleamed under the dim light as she crouched low beside him. “Then we meet them here.”
The door shuddered once, twice, then splintered inward. The desk skidded across the floor. Two men forced their way in, rifles raised.
Lian leapt forward, striking before they could aim. Her blade tore across the first man’s arm, sending his weapon spinning. She slammed her elbow into his jaw, dropping him.
Kai swung the pipe at the second, catching him across the ribs. The man gasped, staggering back, before Lian finished him with a quick thrust of steel.
Shouts echoed from the stairwell. More coming.
Kai dragged the bodies aside, kicking their weapons toward Lian. She caught one rifle, checked the chamber, then aimed toward the broken door.
The next wave came fast, four men rushing in. Gunfire roared, bullets tearing into the walls. Lian dropped one with a clean shot to the chest, then another. The third lunged at Kai, but the pipe caught him square across the skull, dropping him instantly.
The fourth tried to retreat, but Lian caught him, knife flashing in a blur of motion.
The apartment was thick with smoke now, the sharp sting of gunpowder burning their throats.
Lian wiped blood from her cheek, her breath steady. “Any more?”
Kai listened. The stairwell had gone silent.
“Not yet.”
From under the bed, Jun’s voice shook. “More will come.”
Lian crouched low, meeting his eyes. “Then we move. Now.”
They left the apartment in silence, slipping down the back stairwell into the narrow alley. The boy clung to Kai’s sleeve, his steps unsteady but quick.
The city felt alive around them, the air heavy with street food and exhaust. Yet every sound seemed dangerous.
They blended into the night, moving quickly through side streets until they reached the van. Lian drove hard, weaving through traffic, the boy curled small in the back seat.
No one spoke for a long while. The city blurred past, a shifting mix of color and concrete.
Finally, Kai broke the silence. “Sham Shui Po. The boy knew it. That’s our next stop.”
Lian’s eyes stayed locked on the road. “Yes.”
The boy lifted his head, voice soft but clear. “I can take you there.”
Both siblings turned to him, but neither spoke.
The van pushed deeper into the night, carrying them forward.
