Hanoi's late July dusk was stifling, heavy enough to wring water from the air. Hoan Kiem Lake lay under a veil of humid mist, blurring the ancient banyans, the jade-hued Ngoc Son Temple, and the distant outlines of French colonial villas. The lake was still as emerald glass, reflecting the grey sky; dragon-prowed tourist boats sat glued to its surface.
Nguyen Van expertly maneuvered his worn but meticulously polished Honda Wave through the maze-like alleys of the Old Quarter's '36 Streets.' He wore a faded blue Grab driver's vest over a cheap T-shirt, soaked through with sweat that glued the thin fabric to his lean back. Without warning, the rain crashed down—not a drizzle, but great drops drumming hard on his helmet, instantly turning streets into muddy streams.
His raincoat only partially protected his torso; his trousers and boots were soaked through, the chill water seeping into his bones. He'd just delivered an order to a fussy European tourist near the lake and was racing towards his next pickup in Cau Giay District—a long ride away. A glance at the app on his handlebars showed the slowly crawling kilometers and estimated fare. Each number flickering on that screen was like oxygen – vital. Each kilometer, each Vietnamese dong, was tethered to crushing burdens: his mother's worsening cough, the looming tuition fees for his younger sister Mai in ninth grade, and the ever-tightening noose of debt owed to Trương Cá (Strong Brother), a local figure whose thugs had already reminded him twice.
Screeech! A piercing sound of tires skidding was followed by a furious horn blast. A brand-new Toyota Fortuner SUV, cutting him off at an intersection, sprayed thick mud across his face and chest. Van slammed the brakes, his bike wobbling violently before he steadied it.
"Xem đường đi, thằng mù!" (Watch where you're going, you blind bastard!) The SUV's window rolled down. A young man with a thick gold chain nestled on his flashy polo shirt spat the insult in thick Hanoi slang, his face twisted in disdain, looking at Van and his bike like street garbage. The window snapped up, and the SUV roared away.
Van wiped mud from his eyes, knuckles white where he gripped the handlebars. The heat of anger surged in his chest, but he forced it down. Fight? Conflict? He couldn't afford it. All he needed was each completed fare adding to his account balance. He inhaled deeply, the air thick with exhaust fumes and the scent of wet earth, and twisted the throttle back into the snarling traffic.
Arriving at an old apartment building in Cau Giay three minutes late, the customer—a middle-aged woman with a sharp Northern accent—snapped, "Hello? What's the matter? Can't you deliver on time? We're starving! Fifth floor, left! Hurry up!"
Van climbed five narrow flights littered with junk. He passed the food through the grubby security gate. The woman's eyes darted over his sodden appearance before critically inspecting the container. "Is the soup spilled? I'm filing a complaint if it's spilled! Slow and useless!"
"Apologies, the rain..." Van murmured, the explanation automatic.
"Rain is your excuse? Your problem!" She grabbed the food and slammed the door shut.
Van turned silently back down the stairs, the odors of countless cooked meals mixing with his own dampness. He was used to these slights – the condescending looks and voices from people only marginally better off. Little needles that didn't pierce the skin but added weight to an invisible load. Reaching his bike, his phone rang. Lộc (Deer), Strong Brother's underling.
"Van, Strong Brother asks about the thirty million dong. When can you get it? He needs cash flow, don't make this hard. Delays... Strong Brother doesn't like debtors without honor." Lộc's tone was fake polite, laced with threat.
"Lộc, just a few more days... five! I swear, I'll find it! Rain's killing business..." Van's voice dropped, pleading.
"Enough. Heard it before. Strong Brother's kind. Five days. No money... you know." Lộc hung up.
The rain hadn't stopped. Night fully claimed Hanoi. Van leaned against his wet seat, exhaustion like a mountain. Images flashed: his mother's sallow face, Mai hunched silently over homework, Strong Brother's cold stare. The app's glow, showing nearly twenty fares yet yielding barely enough for a day's food and medicine after fuel and Grab's cut, was harsh in the gloom.
Then, a new notification pulsed. A late-night long-distance request: from a luxury hotel by West Lake (Hồ Tây) to a remote village in Gia Lâm district. Far, roads unknown, pouring rain—high risk. But the fare... was nearly half a day's income.
Go, or not?
His stomach growled loudly. His mother's meager breakfast money had bought one cheap bánh mì earlier, long gone. The damp clothes clung, bringing chills. He stared at the number, then at the city glittering coldly through the downpour.
Van gritted his teeth and accepted the ride.
The engine roared into the wet night. Yellow headlights cut the deluge and darkness, heading towards the unknown. Legends of Hoan Kiem Lake meant nothing now. He was grasping for a wet, slippery piece of straw in the dark.