Chapter 8: THE COIN SHOP
The address led to a narrow storefront wedged between a dumpling restaurant and a shop selling knockoff designer bags.
A faded sign in English and Chinese read: "CHEN'S RARE COINS & ANTIQUITIES." The windows were grimy enough to make the interior invisible from the street. The door stuck when I pushed it, requiring a second shove before it scraped open.
Inside, dust motes drifted through bars of sunlight like lazy fireflies. Display cases lined the walls, filled with coins I didn't recognize—ancient Chinese currency, Roman denarii, gold pieces from empires that had crumbled to dust centuries ago.
The man behind the counter was small, thin, and old enough that guessing his exact age felt pointless. Somewhere between sixty and a hundred and fifty. He wore a traditional Chinese jacket and watched me with eyes that gave away nothing.
"Help you?" His English was accented but precise.
"I'm looking for special acquisitions." The phrase from the forum. Either it meant something or I was about to look very stupid. "Someone mentioned you might help."
Nothing changed in his expression. Not a twitch. Not a blink.
"Acquisitions cost money. You have money?"
I hesitated. Thirty-one dollars in my pocket. Barely enough for food, let alone whatever gold coins cost in this economy.
"I might have other things to trade."
Chen's eyes dropped to my hands. I held them up instinctively—palms out, showing I wasn't armed. The gesture exposed my forearm.
The brand.
His eyebrows rose. Just a fraction. The first reaction I'd gotten from him.
"Show me."
I pulled back my sleeve. The coiled chain design had healed into a raised scar, the lines too precise to be accidental. Chen leaned forward, examining it without touching.
"You're new." Not a question. A statement. "Very new. I can smell the blood still on you."
My jaw tightened.
"Does that matter?"
"Everything matters." Chen straightened and reached under the counter. For a moment I tensed, expecting a weapon. Instead, he produced a small ceramic pot and two cups. "Tea?"
"Civilized. Like we're discussing the weather instead of murder for hire."
"Sure."
He poured with the practiced grace of someone who'd performed this ritual thousands of times. The tea was pale gold, fragrant with something floral I couldn't identify.
I sipped. Nearly burned my tongue. The taste was unlike anything I'd experienced—clean and complex, simultaneously bitter and sweet.
"Good tea."
"Excellent tea." Chen's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Now. You want gold. You have no money. This is a problem."
"You mentioned other ways to trade."
"Services." He nodded slowly. "The organization I represent occasionally needs tasks performed. Small jobs. Discrete work. In exchange, we provide appropriate compensation."
"How much compensation?"
"Two gold coins per task. Depending on complexity."
Two coins. I had no idea if that was generous or insulting, but it was more than zero.
"What kind of tasks?"
Chen reached under the counter again. This time he produced a photograph—slightly blurred, clearly taken from a distance. A young Asian man, maybe mid-twenties, with a distinctive dragon tattoo climbing his neck.
"Tommy Zhao. He owes money to people who don't appreciate being owed. Find him. Collect what he owes. Bring proof."
I studied the photo. The face was ordinary. Forgettable. The kind of person you'd pass on the street without a second glance.
"And if he can't pay?"
Chen's expression didn't change.
"Then bring different proof."
A collection job. The kind of work that could end in broken bones or a body depending on how things went.
[SIDE CONTRACT AVAILABLE. TARGET: TOMMY ZHAO. OBJECTIVE: DEBT COLLECTION. REWARD: 50 BLOOD COINS. ACCEPT?]
The System's voice cut through my thoughts. Cold. Transactional. Reducing another human being to currency.
"You're already a killer. What's one more?"
But this was different from Yuri Petrov. The System had forced that kill. This one was voluntary. This one was choosing to dive deeper into the darkness.
"You need those coins. You need access. You need to survive long enough to figure out what the hell is happening to you."
"I'll do it."
Chen nodded as if he'd never expected any other answer.
"Tommy frequents a mahjong parlor on Mott Street. He'll be there tonight. He always is when he owes money—gambling to win back what he's lost."
"And if I run into complications?"
Something shifted in Chen's eyes. Something cold.
"Handle them. That's what you're paid for."
I finished the tea. Set the cup down carefully. Memorized the address Chen gave me for the mahjong parlor.
"I'll be back tomorrow."
"I'll have your coins ready." Chen was already turning away, dismissing me. "Don't disappoint me, Mr...?"
"Radcliff. Matt Radcliff."
"Mr. Radcliff." He tasted the name like he was deciding whether it was real. "Good hunting."
The door stuck again on my way out. I had to yank it twice before it opened.
"Handle complications. Like it's that simple."
But nothing in this world was simple. I was starting to understand that.
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