Felix scrolled through his contacts, his finger hesitating on the screen. There weren't many people he could call—most of his colleagues were on duty, and outside the department, he'd always kept to himself.
The finger stopped on a name: Peter Wong.
They'd only taken two classes together back in college, hardly enough to be called friends. Felix remembered him as the kind who was always headed somewhere else but never in a hurry to get there—second-generation Chinese-American, wealthy family, careless manner, and a smile with a blade's edge beneath it.
The call was picked up after two rings.
"Felix? Long time no see. What's up?"
"Drinks?"
"You buying?" Static crackled in Peter's laugh. "Alright, I'll call a few people."
Felix drove toward UCLA to meet them. In one of the campus parking structures, Peter was leaning against his Cadillac, chatting with a group of girls in the car beside him—his date and her friends.
When Felix's G-Class pulled up and stopped next to them, Peter waved him over.
"Felix, come on. Let me introduce you—Lily, Lizzie, Rachel, and Feng Wei."
Felix got out, nodding in turn, matching names to faces:
Lily—sharp eyes, cropped leather jacket.
Lizzie—blonde, easy smile.
Feng Wei—high cheekbones, reserved gaze.
And then there was Rachel.
Her black hair trailed down the line of her neck, catching a faint shimmer at the edge of the dim, amber headlights, setting off the skin of her shoulders like untouched porcelain. Her complexion was pale; her features did not rush to assault the eye, yet every proportion was precise—brows long and soft, lips pale yet clearly defined. Her movements rippled like the surface of water, not a studied allure, but an innate rhythm.
When she lifted her gaze, it was like a beam of light narrowing in slow focus, coming to rest on Felix. No flicker, no polite retreat—only the steady regard of someone weighing a face they meant to remember. In that moment, the noise and glare around them seemed to drop away, leaving only the dark current shifting in her eyes.
The six split into three cars—Peter with Lily, Lizzie with Rachel and Feng Wei, Felix in his own. Lizzie's little MINI led the way to a bar called Moulin Rouge, the name spelled out on a sign above the door, a decorative windmill on the roof explaining it. From the outside, it looked ordinary enough.
There was, however, a brawny man and a waiter at the entrance. That was something.
Entry was free for the women, thirty dollars a head for the men—standard rules.
Felix bought his ticket, but just as he was about to step inside, the big man stopped him.
"Sir, no firearms allowed in the bar. You can leave it with me and collect it when you leave."
Felix glanced at him. The faint outline of tattoos peeked from under the man's collar, and the bulge under his shirt hem was unmistakable. He was carrying. And over his head hung the red marker of guilt.
"You're carrying too."
"I'm security, sir."
Felix smiled faintly, unfastened his tactical belt, and handed over his pistol and spare magazine.
"Don't scratch it."
A quick pat-down confirmed he had no other weapons, and the man let him pass.
As Felix walked away, the guard's eyes followed his back. His hand pressed to the earpiece, lips moving.
The heavy wooden door swung shut behind him, cutting off the street.
Inside, the air was thick with alcohol, perfume, and the scent of old wood—like something that had been soaking in shadow for years. Dim light from the chandeliers swung just enough to split every face into light and dark.
No live performance on the stage, only a jukebox murmuring an old song in the corner, like it had been drowned in liquor long ago.
Waitstaff moved between high tables, backs straight, eyes occasionally flicking over the rims of glasses—a habit born of caution. Along the walls, a few men lounged in loose postures, but their knees were angled to rise instantly, elbows resting on tables as if ready to reach inside their jackets.
They found a table in the corner. Drinks had barely been ordered when a voice came from beside them.
"Sorry to interrupt. Are you Mr. Chen?"
Felix turned. A well-dressed white man in his thirties stood there, wearing a polished smile that didn't touch his eyes, a folded newspaper in hand. The marker above his head was black.
Scanning the room quickly, Felix kept his face still. "I'm Felix. And you are?"
"I'm the manager here—Mike Luca. When security said Mr. Chen had arrived, I thought I'd come over and greet you personally. Your drinks tonight are on the house. I hope you enjoy yourself."
"Seriously?" Peter blurted. Drinks here weren't cheap; six people drinking freely could run up thousands. None of them were poor, but a free tab like that wasn't pocket change.
"How did your security know who I was?"
Mike smiled. "Seems Mr. Chen doesn't read the papers." He handed it over. "See for yourself."
Felix unfolded it. The headline screamed: "Half-Chinese-American Detective, Killer with a Badge—Every Victim Dead, Yet He Walks Free."
The article detailed Felix's background, trimming away context, and used outrage-laden language to question why he was still on the force instead of in prison.
Peter murmured, "So you really became a cop…" The girls' expressions shifted in ways they probably didn't realize.
Felix's mind worked quickly. All those shootings had been broad daylight, with officers and bystanders watching. Reporters sniffing it out wasn't surprising—and in the case of the homeless serial killer, the department probably announced it themselves.
But he didn't read newspapers. He hadn't realized he was, in a way, a minor celebrity—if such a title applied.
Not good. He was letting this man set the pace. Time to break it.
Felix's lips curled. "If you're trying to place a bet, you should be more generous. Drinks are pocket change."
"Oh? And what does Mr. Chen mean by that?" Mike spread his hands.
"I mean, you're trying to pull me in, but think I'm just a small-time patrol cop not worth much. That won't work, Mike. We have a saying in China—'If you can't part with your daughter, you can't catch the rogue.'"
"True. Drinks aren't much. But… we have time." Mike's smile stayed thin.
Peter leaned in, whispering, "What are you two talking about? I'm lost."
Felix glanced at him. "Nothing much. Mike here is mafia. He wants to buy me off so I'll work for him someday. But he's offering too little, so I'm not interested."
The shock on Peter's face was echoed in the girls'. They'd been here before, never realizing.
"That guy, that one, and those two—" Felix gestured casually around the room. Each time he pointed, Mike's smile cooled another degree.
"You've only been on the job a few days, according to the papers. How did you figure it out?"
Felix didn't answer. No point explaining that the glowing red guilt marks above their heads were impossible to miss.
Mike's voice dropped. "You know refusing the mafia's goodwill can end badly."
Felix rose to face him. "I don't know. I'd like to find out how bad."
The men Felix had indicated began closing in, hands drifting under jackets.
"You'll get your chance, Mr. Chen."
The tension was sharp enough to cut. Peter and the girls stiffened, expecting gunfire. Felix motioned for them to relax, his hand sliding beneath his jacket, ready to draw from his storage space. His gaze was ice.
"I'm ready."
Mike smirked. "You're bluffing. You don't have a gun."
Felix smiled back. "You'll find out."
They held each other's stare for a long beat before Mike finally said, "Leave. And don't come back."
"I'll leave. But I'll be back—to arrest you, Mike."
Under watchful eyes, Felix led his group out.
The night air outside felt like a bandage ripped away, letting the tension bleed out.
"My gear," Felix said, hand out to the hulking guard at the door.
The man slammed the tactical belt into his palm hard enough to sting.
"Manners," Felix said coldly.
They'd walked a block before Rachel spoke. "That was… insanely hot, Felix. But how could you be sure they wouldn't open fire?"
"I wasn't. I was only sure that if they did, I wouldn't die."
Lizzie's eyes lit up. "So you're that good?"
Peter frowned. "Wait—if you wouldn't die, what about us?"
Felix gave him a look. "Depends on your luck. Bad luck? Can't help you."
"You're unbelievable!" Peter snapped.
They bickered until Feng Wei asked, "Why reject them so hard? You could've played along, gotten out safe, then decided later."
"Yeah, you could've just agreed and backed out afterward."
Felix shrugged. "A few reasons. One, I'm confident I could get out even if they drew. Two, L.A. isn't strong mafia territory anymore. The Delana family used to own it, but after years of pressure from the FBI and LAPD, it's now neutral ground. Families don't send too many people here—it draws suspicion. Mike might look dangerous, but he's mid-level at best. Not worth the trouble. And three… we live in an age of smartphones. You never know who's recording. I'm a mixed guy in law enforcement; I can't afford a stain on my record."
It all sounded reasonable. In truth, Felix just saw them as walking targets. You don't make friends with chickens, ducks, and geese before slaughter. If Mike had gone for his gun, Felix wouldn't have minded—it would have been a chance to level up and maybe gain a new skill.
Peter, though, noticed something unsettling: Lizzie and the others looked at Felix with bright eyes—and so did Lily, his own girlfriend.
He pulled her close. "We should head back to campus. Safer that way."
"Yeah, go. Nights can be dangerous. Let's hope this doesn't hurt our friendship," Felix said.
Rachel hadn't said a word since, until the streetlight lit her profile. "Do you have any alcohol at your place?"
Felix studied her. In the light, her pupils were black tides with a razor edge beneath the calm. Not drunkenness—curiosity driving her toward the fire.
"Of course," he said, a faint smile on his lips.
He drove her back to his apartment.
Inside, Rachel glanced around. "So… where's your liquor cabinet?"
Felix's arms slid around her from behind.
They kissed. The night rolled on without sleep.
By morning, Rachel woke sore and scattered, skin marked faintly red. Felix had been rough—too long pent up. She wasn't careless, but last night she'd moved before thinking. Someone else might've gotten there first if she hadn't.
She sat up to find the bed empty. For a moment, she wondered if he'd slipped away—but this was his place.
Pulling on one of his shirts, she stepped into the living room.
"You're up," Felix said without looking up. "Breakfast's ready."
The table held congee, eggs, pickles, buns, dumplings—the steam fragrant.
"You made this? You cook?"
He gave her a strange look. "It's takeout."
"You couldn't just lie to make me happy?"
Felix didn't answer. He hadn't decided what to do about her yet.
She bit into a bun hard enough to leave a dent. Only then did Felix notice the small sharpness of her teeth. So that's what he'd felt last night.
When she caught him looking, she turned her head away, suddenly self-conscious.
He finished his meal quickly, set a car key on the table. "Your car's still at the Moulin Rouge. It's far from your campus. Take mine. I'll pick it up later."
Her expression softened. "Can't you drive me? Not afraid I'll sell your car?"
"You an idiot? I'm a cop. I've got work. Can't take you. Bye."
The door shut behind him.
Rachel bit down on the bun again.
Bastard.