The city never really slept. Not when the rain poured and the thunderstorms roared loud enough to split the sky.
Shen Yi stood still in the alley's shadow, letting water drip down the side of his hood. The street beyond flickered with green signage, steam curling from a sewer vent. He checked his watch. Thirty seconds until the mark walked out of the club's back door.
Under his gloved hands was one silenced pistol. It was professionally held, the finger already on the trigger.
He moved through the metal gate, then past the dumpster. The door creaked open ahead of him, right on time. A man stumbled out, muttering into his phone, cigarette dangling.
"Damn it! Say something or... What?" The man seemed to have realised something and by the time he looked up, he was met by fate.
Shen Yi didn't hesitate. He made a direct shot to the chest, quiet and clean. The man dropped like a stone, knees buckling beneath him.
Shen Yi stepped forward and caught his body as it fell, with no words or sound, aside from rain.
He dragged the corpse into the alley's mouth, tucking it behind the bins, making sure the angle looked like a drunk passed out. He checked the pulse and it was gone.
He was yet to make a move when his phone vibrated. He took it out and read the text:
"Train to District 7. Clinic behind old convenience store, with a metal door."
In less than ten seconds, the text had been erased.
One more blink of the city swallowed the scene whole. Another job done.
He walked away, melting into traffic, blending into faces and wet umbrellas. No one noticed. No one ever did.
He took the train to District 7, and stood the whole ride, his back pressed against the wall. People around him scrolled their phones, argued over cheap umbrellas, but his gaze didn't settle on any of them.
The clinic was tucked behind an old convenience store, marked only by a worn keypad and a locked metal door.
He knocked once and a woman in a white coat opened the door, glanced at him, and turned without a word. He followed silently. Those were the rules of this world he lived in. No questions and just doing as asked.
The walls inside were sterile. Chrome, cables, humming machines. A chair waited beneath a round light and straps hung at the sides.
He sat knowing fully well it was prepared for him.
Then he heard a voice:
"Commencing wipe protocol. Target: Shen Yi. Job 0420 complete. No emotional residue detected."
A low persistent hum started up, crawling along the back of his scalp, before cold pads touched his skin. Then came a dull pressure spreading behind his eyes like a headache that had not arrived yet.
Shen blinked twice, as the edges of the room began to blur.
The overhead light flickered, just once, after a slow breath escaped his lips. And darkness surrounded him.
When he woke again, the place was empty. He was lying on the cold floor, his memory altered from every event that had occurred, and could only recall when he was leaving his apartment. Shen Yi scowled in pain but he didn't question it. It was a routine he was used to.
Beside him, there was an envelope sealed in black wax and a lighter. He opened it.
Inside was a photograph, and a paper written:
Target: Jiang Qi
Status: High-Risk
Timeframe: 72 hours
Identity: Jiang Mafia Clan
Notes: Eliminate without trace
He then stared at the photo longer than necessary. The man in it was smiling. He had a tattoo at the collarbone, and his eyes- they did not match the smile at all.
Something clicked in Shen Yi's mind, but he could not pinpoint what it was. He blinked, but the feeling of familiarity did not pass. So, all he could do was ignore it.
He took the lighter and immediately burnt the letter together with the envelope, and had even begun to burn the photo when he heard some whispers outside. He put out the fire on the quarter-burnt photo, before tucking it into his pocket, and stood up. He walked to the door, which was the only way out of the place, his pistol already in his hands. He waited for a while but there were no more sounds.
Shen Yi walked out of the place after making sure no one was around.
It was almost morning when he got back to his apartment. Everything was where it should be. His spare shirts, weapons case, blank walls, and a single neat bed. There were no personal pictures, no books, or anything that was personal.
Shen Yi walked to the bed and sat down. He reached to his side waist and took out the pistol, putting it beside him. He was about to relax when he recalled something. Unhurriedly, he took out the burned photo and checked it again. The face of the person was untouched and unconsciously, he traced his thumb on it.
'Jiang Qi.' The name echoed in his mind and somehow, it distantly sounded dangerously familiar.
But he would kill the man anyway. Just like all the others.
***
The music was muffled this high up, just bass-thumping through the floor.
Jiang Qi, 27 years old, stood with one hand braced against the glass wall, staring out at the blinking city lights. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, his collarbone bare. A black ink of his tattoo peeked out. A tip of a dragon's tail curved upward, disappearing beneath the fabric.
He sipped whiskey slowly, not to enjoy it, but because it gave him something to do with his hands.
Behind him, two men in black argued.
"The docks are bleeding money," one said, addressing Jiang Qi. "We lost five crates. Someone tipped off customs."
"Then clean it up," Jiang Qi said flatly, without turning around.
"We tried-"
He raised a hand, and just like that, they went silent. It wasn't a threat. At least not yet. But the silence hung too long to be comfortable.
Then he finally turned. His eyes carried the kind of darkness that was neither friendly nor too scary, just calculative and focused. His expression didn't change, but the air did. The men lowered their heads, recoiling at Jiang Qi's sight.
"You brought me a problem," he said. "I want a solution."
His tone was cold, but not loud. Actually, Jiang Qi never yelled, because he did not need to. The weight in his voice did the work, being the sole heir of the Jiang Mafia Clan.
One of the men opened his mouth to speak again but Jiang Qi walked past him, slowly, and sat on the edge of the desk, resting the glass beside him. His fingers drummed once against the wood.
"You want to fix this?" he asked.
The man nodded.
Jiang Qi looked at him for a long second, then gave a small smile - but it didn't reach his eyes. "Then start by finding out which one of you is the rat."
The man froze. His mouth twitched, caught halfway to a denial.
Jiang Qi tilted his head slightly, like he was genuinely curious. "Because someone warned customs. And if it wasn't you... then it was your friend."
He reached into his jacket, slowly and casually, and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He lit one, and took a drag.
Then he stood up.
"You have twenty-four hours," he said, turning back to the window. "Or I'll find the answer myself."
And that would be worse. Neither of them moved until Jiang Qi waved them off with a flick of his wrist.
Once they were gone, he finally exhaled lightly. The cigarette burned between his fingers, as if forgotten. Outside the window, the city blinked back at him - filthy and alive. He hated it and yet he loved it. It was the only thing that never lied.
He walked to the shelf and poured himself another drink. He was about to walk away when he looked at the slightly opened drawer beneath the bar. Unhurriedly, he pulled it out. Inside was a photo that he immediately took, his eyes a bit warmer that earlier.
He stared at the photo for a long time as he dropped into the leather chair at the terrace and whispered under his breath, like it wasn't meant to be heard:
"Little Black."
A memory of his twenty year old self flashed and he could himself calling Little Black as he followed a figure inside a cottage.
"Aren't you done hiding?" He whispered to the photo as if the person in it could actually hear him.