The West District night market was always the loudest place in Zhonghai after sunset.
By early evening, the narrow streets were already packed with workers heading home, students weaving through traffic with their backpacks still hanging loose from one shoulder, and elderly women arguing over vegetable prices as if the fate of the world depended on two yuan.
Dirty water from vegetable washing stations flowed along the broken pavement, carrying wilted leaves and grease into clogged drains. Old shop signs hung crooked above narrow storefronts, their paint long faded by sun and rain. A few neon lights flickered stubbornly against the gray sky, buzzing faintly like tired insects refusing to die.
In a city that liked to call itself international and polished, this corner of West District was something most people preferred to forget—like a stain they pretended did not belong to them.
Near a low concrete wall by the traffic intersection, a young man sat behind a small charcoal grill, slowly turning skewers of lamb over open flame.
He wore a white tank top already darkened by oil and smoke. Loose brown shorts hung just below his knees, and a pair of cheap blue plastic slippers slapped softly against the ground whenever he shifted his weight. His hair was slightly messy, as though he had cut it himself months ago and never bothered fixing it.
But his face—if anyone had taken the time to look closely—was surprisingly sharp. Not delicate. Not pretty. Just masculine in a quiet, understated way, as if he had seen more of life than someone his age should.
Unfortunately, nobody cared to look closely.
Because he was just a guy selling lamb skewers.
"Five yuan for two," he called out lazily.
Business had been slow all afternoon. The heat made it easy to grill meat, but hard to sell it. Even at a cheap price, customers drifted past without stopping. If he was lucky, he would make enough tonight for two decent meals.
He did not look particularly concerned about that.
Instead, he leaned back on his small wooden stool and watched the endless stream of traffic crawl past the intersection. Car lights reflected off oily puddles on the street, mixing into streaks of red and white across the ground. To him, it almost looked beautiful.
"Old Li!"
A harsh voice cut through the evening noise.
Three young punks walked toward the fried snack stall next to him. None of them looked older than twenty. The one leading them had his hair gelled straight up, a cheap silver chain hanging from his neck, and jeans ripped more for style than necessity.
Old Li's face immediately stiffened.
"Brother Feng… business hasn't been good," the old man said with a strained smile. "Give me two more days. Just two—"
Feng grabbed a sausage skewer, took two bites, and tossed the rest onto the ground.
"I didn't ask about your business," he said flatly. "I asked where my money is."
Old Li clutched the thin stack of bills in his pocket. That money was for his wife's medication.
Before he could answer, a calm voice spoke from the side.
"I'll cover it."
The skewer vendor walked over, pulling a few worn bills from his pocket. Not much. Maybe a hundred at most.
"That's all I've got today," he said evenly. "The old man needs the rest."
Feng squinted at him. "Ryan, you haven't paid your own protection fee yet."
"Tomorrow," Ryan replied.
Feng studied him for a second, then smirked. "Fine. Tomorrow."
The three of them drifted away, already looking for another stall to harass.
Old Li's eyes were red when he turned back. "Kid… you don't have to keep helping me like this…"
Ryan waved him off. "You helped me when I first came here. Consider us even."
He returned to his grill like nothing had happened.
Like being threatened by street punks was just part of the evening routine.
And under the dim streetlight, with smoke curling lazily into the darkening sky, he looked less like a struggling vendor—
And more like someone who simply chose to be there.
Ryan packed up long after the crowds thinned.
The air had cooled slightly, but the pavement still held the heat of the day. He counted the remaining skewers, wrapped the grill tools in cloth, and tied everything down to the small handcart he used to move between his rented apartment and the market.
Tonight had been average.
Which meant just enough.
He pushed the cart through dim side streets until he reached his apartment building. The structure was old enough that no one remembered when it had been built. Paint peeled from the walls in long strips. The stairwell light flickered when it felt like working. Rent was cheap—cheap enough that nobody complained too loudly.
Ryan lived on the third floor.
Inside, the room was simple. A narrow bed, a second-hand wooden wardrobe, a folding table, and a small television that barely caught two channels. Everything functional. Nothing extra.
He took a quick cold shower, letting the water wash away the smell of smoke and grease. His body was lean but well-built, muscles defined not from the gym but from years of labor—and something else, something less obvious.
After drying off, he stood in front of the wardrobe for a moment before pulling out a light beige shirt and a pair of linen trousers.
He kept the slippers.
He checked the calendar hanging by the door, then smiled faintly.
"Right," he murmured.
And left again.
West District had only one place that tried to pretend it belonged to the glamorous side of Zhonghai.
Bar Street.
Music could be heard from half a block away. Colored lights flashed across the pavement. Women in bright dresses laughed loudly beneath glowing signs, expensive perfume mixing with alcohol in the humid night air. It was a different world from the market just a few streets behind.
Ryan walked straight toward a bar named ROSE.
Not the biggest. Not the flashiest. But steady.
Inside, he moved easily through the crowd and took a seat at the far corner of the bar counter.
"You're late," the bartender grinned. "She's asked about you five times already."
Ryan accepted the glass of water placed in front of him. "Traffic."
The bartender leaned closer. "Half the men in this district would kill to sit where you're sitting. You sure you're not playing with fire?"
"We're just friends," Ryan replied calmly.
A soft voice answered from behind them.
"Are we?"
The noise of the bar did not fade.
But something in the atmosphere shifted.
Ryan turned.
She wore a modern-cut qipao in deep red, the fabric hugging her curves elegantly under shifting lights. The slit revealed long, poised legs with every step she took. Her features were refined, her posture effortless, her presence commanding without effort.
In West District, she was known simply as Rose.
Owner of ROSE Bar.
Beautiful.
Untouchable.
And inexplicably interested in a man who sold lamb skewers for a living.
Ryan met her gaze without awkwardness.
"You look good tonight," he said evenly. "Happy birthday."
Rose smiled slightly, though her eyes were sharp.
"You remembered."
Ryan shrugged.
"I usually do."
Outside, the neon lights continued to flicker over West District.
Most people believed this part of the city belonged to the desperate and the forgotten.
They were not entirely wrong.
But they did not know—
Some men chose to stand in the shadows.
And when they stepped into the light—
The city would have to adjust.