Under the veil of night, Brooklyn pulsed with the restless energy of the city. The neon-lit streets were packed—a melting pot of white, Black, and Asian faces.
New York was the world's largest metropolis, and Brooklyn its most populous borough, home to three million people. But to the rest of the city, Brooklyn was just the gutters.
It was a chaotic sprawl crawling with junkies, call girls, drunks, and gangbangers. Walk down the right street, and you'd spot scantily clad women lingering on the sidewalks. Sporting cheap foundation and bright red lips, they smoked loose cigarettes and watched the men pass by. This was especially true in Hunts Point, the undisputed red-light district of New York.
Brooklyn, Southpoint Bar.
Dazzling lights and blaring heavy metal. A screaming lead singer and strippers working the steel poles.
The room was packed with testosterone-fueled men and shrieking women. Everything inside the bar captured the restless, impulsive fever of the city.
The Bar, Basement.
Less than thirty square meters and dimly lit. The air was thick with the metallic stench of blood.
In the center sat a hardwood bed where a blood-soaked white youth lay dying. A middle-aged man in a white coat and glasses sweated profusely as he frantically worked over him. He was trying to stitch up a massive abdominal wound, but his hands trembled violently.
Three men stood by the door, guns drawn. The leader, a burly Black man, furrowed his brows in deep concern.
"I... I can't do it!" the middle-aged doctor blurted out. He turned to the men by the door, gulping hard.
The burly Black man looked at him with dead eyes. He pulled a small, black cylindrical object from his jacket—a handgun suppressor.
"I really can't, he's beyond saving... Please..."
The middle-aged man panicked and scrambled backward. His legs gave out, sending him crashing to the floor. In his terror, his flailing hand knocked over a tray of surgical instruments. The clattering metal was deafening in the quiet basement.
Pfft!
The burly Black man had screwed on the suppressor without blinking. He raised his hand and fired a single shot.
A bloody hole appeared on the middle-aged man's forehead. He fell back onto the floor, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.
The shooter shot a glance to his side. A heavily built, bald white man opened the door and called out. Two men quickly walked in and dragged the fresh corpse away.
"Is my brother gonna make it?" The bald man glared at the dying figure on the bed, eyes burning with rage.
"Give it a minute. It happened fast, but maybe there's a chance," the Black man said, his voice a low rumble.
The door behind them creaked open. A young man stood in the doorway. He was clearly of Asian descent, but his striking sea-blue eyes marked him as mixed-race.
"Tang. About time." The burly Black man let out a breath, allowing the newcomer inside before shutting the door.
Jay Tang didn't speak. He just nodded, walking to the bed to look down at the dying youth.
"...Help... me..." The youth's eyes flickered. His lips moved in a broken, incredibly weak whisper.
"Who the hell is this?" the bald man demanded.
"The doc."
The bald man marched up to Jay Tang, his tone urgent. "Can you fix him?"
"Yeah," Jay Tang said. He didn't move, his eyes locked on the bleeding youth. "Robbie. Your top triggerman. He got chewed up pretty bad this time."
"Shut up and fix him!" the bald man snapped. Enraged, he raised his gun and leveled it directly at Jay Tang's chest.
Jay Tang frowned. He looked at the gun, then tilted his head toward the Black man behind him. "New blood?"
"Robbie's kid brother. Just came in from Jersey." The Black man stepped forward. "Put the piece down, kid."
The bald man snapped his head around, but the older man's stern glare forced him to back down. Trembling with agitated fury, he finally lowered the weapon.
Just then, a sweating man burst into the basement, breathing heavily. He shoved a thick envelope into the Black man's hands, looking like he had sprinted the whole way.
"Tang, catch." The Black man didn't even look at it, tossing the envelope straight to Jay Tang.
Jay Tang caught it effortlessly. Spreading the flap with two fingers, he spotted two crisp stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He raised an eyebrow, tucked the cash into his inner jacket pocket, and pulled a small cloth roll from his other side.
He placed the roll on the bed and snapped it open. Inside lay a neat row of gleaming metal—scalpels, hemostats, and surgical clamps. Jay Tang only carried his specialized tools; basic supplies like gauze and disinfectants were already stacked on a nearby table.
Pulling a pair of sterile rubber gloves from his leather jacket, he snapped them on and leaned over Robbie.
"Hell of a mess," Jay Tang muttered, twisting his mouth. "Four GSWs, two stab wounds..."
Half an hour later.
Jay Tang was gone. Robbie lay on the bed, heavily bandaged and hooked up to a blood transfusion. He was out of the woods.
"Boss, who the hell was that guy?" the bald kid asked. "Why's he get paid upfront?"
"That's Tang. He's a genius, and he only does business with the life. He charges a premium, and he takes the cash first." The burly Black man shook his head slowly. "He saved my life once. Saved Marlos's life, too. Now? There isn't a single soul in the New York underworld who'd dare lay a finger on him."
Marlos. A legendary name across the States. The undisputed godfather of New York's largest crime syndicate.
...
Jay Tang caught a cab back to his place on Oak Street, an aging studio apartment in Brooklyn. He chose this neighborhood for one simple reason: the rent was cheap.
Inside, he tossed the envelope on the nightstand and stripped off his clothes. He wasn't overly tall or bulky, but he possessed a lean, tightly corded physique.
Grabbing a burger and a carton of milk from the fridge, he got into bed and leaned back against the pillows. He clicked on the TV, half-watching the evening news while he ate.
"...explosion occurred at Hopkins University in Maryland around 4 PM today, reducing the northern biological laboratory to ruins..."
"...this round of the WWS World Fighting Championship will feature unarmed combat..."
"...President Osima delivered a speech today..."
Jay Tang clicked the remote, flipping channels endlessly. Nothing held his attention for more than two minutes. Staring blankly at the screen, a sudden thought seemed to cross his mind. Irritated, he killed the power and tossed the remote aside.
Chewing his food in the quiet dark, a heavy wave of exhaustion and depression washed over him.
...
May 20, 2015. Early the next morning.
At exactly 7:30 AM, Jay Tang's eyes snapped open. He jumped out of bed, stretched, and threw open the curtains. After knocking out a quick set of push-ups and sit-ups, he threw on some sweats and went out for a morning run.
By eight o'clock, he was back in the apartment, fresh out of the shower. The transformation was drastic. Gone was the gritty street doctor; in his place stood a sharp, upwardly mobile corporate elite. He buttoned up a tailored suit, sprayed his hair perfectly into place, and flashed a practiced, formulaic smile in the mirror.
Briefcase in hand, he hit the nearest ATM to wire the $20,000 into a designated account. A thirty-minute subway ride later, he stepped out into the world's financial beating heart: lower Manhattan.
Green Point Biomedical was the third-largest pharmaceutical supplier in the world. Their headquarters occupied an entire thirty-story high-rise right off Wall Street.
At 8:50 AM, Jay Tang walked into the CEO's office. He wasn't the CEO, of course. He was the executive assistant.
Jay Tang didn't even like coffee, but every morning he carried a steaming cup into the office, precisely because someone else demanded it.
At exactly nine o'clock, the sharp click-clack of high heels echoed in the hallway. Jay Tang caught a graceful silhouette through the frosted glass, quickly grabbed the coffee, and stood at attention.
A blonde, blue-eyed woman in her early thirties walked in. She was a classic Western beauty, radiating mature authority, but her deadpan, icy expression gave her an incredibly harsh vibe. The moment she opened the door, the previously bustling open-plan office outside went graveyard silent.
This was Hilary Hovis, the CEO of Green Point.
"Boss." Jay Tang handed her the coffee and immediately fell into step beside her, flipping open his files. "Last month's financials need your signature. Nasi's assistant called to request a 2 PM meeting. Laufer sent back the report on the European drug shipments for your review. Board meeting at ten, and regarding last quarter..."
Jay Tang rattled off the day's agenda flawlessly as they crossed the room. Hilary didn't say a word. She just pursed her red lips, took a sip of her coffee, and didn't even spare him a glance as she sat down in her leather executive chair.
She tapped her desk once. Jay Tang set the thick stack of documents down and stepped back dutifully.
Hilary pondered for a second. "Scrap the board meeting. Have Nasi in my office at ten. Tell middle management we're convening in the main conference room at two. That'll be all."
"Right away, Boss," Jay Tang replied, turning toward his own desk in the corner.
Hilary glanced up. "Wait."
Jay Tang stopped and turned back. "Something else?"
"That tie is hideous," Hilary said, curling her lip in distaste. "Lose it."
Jay Tang looked down at his brown tie. It was perfectly fine, but clearly not up to her aesthetic standards.
"Yes, Boss." He didn't miss a beat. He walked to his desk and began his grueling day: screening calls, processing low-level paperwork, and managing her every waking minute.
Jay Tang valued this job. It paid over $60,000 a month, and half the building would kill for his desk. He had to be flawless. During his lunch break, he walked three blocks just to buy and change into a new tie.
Later that afternoon, outside the conference room.
"Hi! Dr. Mian. The money cleared this morning," Jay Tang said into his phone, keeping his voice low. "Yeah... I know. I'll wire another chunk when my paycheck clears. How is she? ...Good. Tell her I'll visit this weekend. Right. Bye."
He hung up, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.
6:00 PM.
After a brutal day, Jay Tang took the subway back to Brooklyn. He walked into his cramped apartment and habitually checked the answering machine.
Nothing.
He usually got "underground business" two or three times a month. He only took the worst cases—gunshot wounds, stab wounds, guys circling the drain. You had to be mob to even have his number.
Underground Doctor Jay Tang. A lot of people in New York knew the name, but very few had ever seen his face.
For two years, he had lived this exhausting double life, all just to keep the money flowing.
May 21, 2015. Another early morning.
At 7 AM, a still-sleeping Jay Tang was violently jolted awake by a sudden uproar outside his window.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Someone was hammering on his front door. Jay Tang froze, a deeply ominous feeling settling in his gut. His senses were razor-sharp, and he could already smell it slipping through the cracks of the door.
The faint, unmistakable stench of fresh blood.