Warning: Chapter includes torture and suffocation
He was shown into a concrete room with peeling wallpaper rolling off the walls. A dozen unwashed tables were laid out classroom-like in the shell of an old cafe. An array of underfed young men in peak physical condition sat slumped on or around the tables. They wore their tattoos the way the JFP wore fine suits. Bi-Han eyed them casually as he passed, noting the place of every knife in each belt and sock, the two firearms stuffed into the back of trousers, and the brass knuckledusters on the hand of one man. At the end of the room, the enforcer knocked a rhythm that Bi-Han instinctively memorised. He could feel the new ink on his back itching with anticipation.
He was shown up a wilting wooden staircase to a dark room still in good repair. Heavy musty curtains blocked out what little daylight there was, instead leaving the lighting up to two weak, underpowered bulbs flickering from low tables in the centre of the room.
There was a grating metallic creak from the shadows, and the hair on the back of Bi-Han's neck stood up. His eyes accustomed to the dark. It was a wheelchair. In its thin embrace was a fading man in his late fifties with a blanket over his legs. He was surrounded by much more competent looking men and one woman in a smart cheongsam. His attendants had a patience to them, like the patience of a snow leopard watching a lame hair. The centre of their calm radiated from a man standing quietly off to one side near a drinks cabinet. He had black steely hair, greying at the edges, and deep lines in his face. His eyes were dark and looked straight at Bi-Han in a narrow calculated gaze. Despite the understated dress, Bi-Han could see just from the way this man held himself, that he was the real power in this room. Qian Desheng. He made a mental note. The second-in-command of the KBB.
"Welcome, brother." The man in the wheelchair hailed him.
Bi-Han dragged his attention reluctantly from Desheng to the speaker. Timothy Chen had taken a police bullet to the spine some seven years before that had left him paralysed from the waist down.
"Brother?" Bi-Han said mildly. There was a stir from Timothy's attendants. Bi-Han's manner did not at all reflect the status afforded to their boss.
Timothy gave a smile full of decorum and absent of all warmth.
"All the Triad are brothers. And no place more than in the walls of Kowloon."
"But not all brothers are equal. The Jade Fist Pact may not even carry weapons into this place." Let them think that disturbed him. It would give him the edge if it came to violence.
Timothy gave a more genuine smile this time, and the shoulders of his attendants relaxed a little,
"Indeed. But we always have time to hear out the concerns of the JFP. Whilst you are a guest here you are under our protection. So do not worry yourself with concerns like these."
Whilst you are a guest here. Very precise wording, Bi-Han noted. This was a privilege that would not be extended to those who did not comply to every whim of the KBB.
"Now," Timothy waved a hand and, reluctantly, the smartly dressed woman rolled the wheelchair forward a little, "Julius Hau sent you here. You're not one of his regulars, but I consider Julius a man of high repute. What business have you with us?"
Formalities always made Bi-Han nervous. They were never his chosen mode of operation. Someone like Sektor could smooth talk and emotionally bully his way into a victim's house before he let off a cavalcade of rockets and literally brought the roof down. Bi-Han was more and in-out sort of person. He did best when he was unseen and unheard.
"It concerns your son. He still owes Yeung Kenneth for two kilos of cocaine that he chose to use recreationally rather than selling on for the profits due both parties. It has come to our attention that this debt has not been settled. We ask the KBB's aid in seeing due reparations made." Word-for-word as Grace had told him.
The man in the wheelchair cocked an eyebrow.
"All this trouble over two kilos of crack?"
Bi-Han shifted his weight. Julian had truly chosen a task to make him feel foolish. And suicidal. Don't let the stakes slip from view. He took a breath.
"It's a small trifle, but one that I hope can be resolved."
Timothy Chen sat back in his chair with a slightly disbelieving huff of amusement,
"Surely you haven't been sent by Julius to deal with something as petty as this? When even was this incident?"
Bi-Han kept his breathing even, he could feel tension rippling in the room, rife with insult and dangerous humour.
"A year ago."
Someone next to Qian Desheng smothered a guff of laughter. Timothy Chen sent them dark glare then looked back at Bi-Han.
"What is this? Some kind of power play? Is Julius out of his mind? If these two kilos meant so much you, why didn't you come sooner?" He spoke sideways to Desheng, "This must be some kind of joke." When he looked back in Bi-Han's direction all his interest was gone. He waved dismissively, "You may speak with my son and if he consents to your request so be it, but this matter is hardly worth the attention of the KBB. Show this boy out." He said with contempt.
Bi-Han's shoulders sunk with dismay. His eyes caught Qian Desheng's as the man turned to follow his boss. His gaze alone was devoid of derision. Instead it was sharp, thoughtful, calculating.
Bi-Han was lead back through the concrete cafe and out into the street. He hated feeling powerless. His scowl was deep as he followed the lead of the same enforcer who'd shown him in the gate.
"Tiger won't pay anything." The now familiar enforcer said to him.
"We shall see." Bi-Han replied. The non-violent solutions to this task were fading from view much quicker than he'd anticipated.
They were back in the dark labyrinth of sunken orange doorways and narrow blue alleyways. Faces peered from the shadows then retreated on catching sight of their attire. There were people sleeping, eating, sweeping, going about their livelihoods in a surprisingly normal fashion, devoid of the rule of law and authority. Children dangled feet from balconies above him and peered down at him as they chewed food, or played games with their neighbours. Bi-Han craned his head back. The buildings were so tall and close together, that children had invented new vertical games to play with those above and below them. They hung from rusting railings and climbed walls with twisted fishing lines made into ropes. To Bi-Han's left and right, shadowy alleys bent away in a writhing maze of black brick and crumbling plaster. In the occasional darkness, flickers of neon would light sunken eyes with skeletal begging hands trailed towards him, asking for their next fix. The enforcer batted them away and they slunk back into their shadows. They passed an unlicensed dental practice, and then a clinic, and further on a butchers selling the gods only knew what meat.
"People… just continue on living here." Bi-Han said aloud.
"What did you expect? That we live like animals in Kowloon? Things are a little different here, but not so much." The enforcer talked cheerfully as he stamped through puddles of stale rainwater, every now and again nudging anonymous refuse to the side of the street with the toe of his boot. "There's a yamen in the centre of our city. My grandmother teaches calligraphy lessons there. And locals drink tea in its shade each day, and come and go as they please. No closing times, no opening times. You can sit on any roof in Kowloon and watch the sun rise or set. Share a drink with a neighbour and walk across rooftops as though they were highways. Can't do that on Hong Kong Island."
Bi-Han quieted. In the end, he supposed the arrangement locals had here wasn't so different from that which the Lin Kuei shared with the villages nearby in the mountains. There was an uneven power relationship, but on the whole it was live and let live. Each had uses for the other.
"It must be easy running business here without the police around." He'd spent the last three months engaged in tit-for-tat warfare with the Hong Kong Police Force, and was genuinely interested to understand Kowloon in all its oddities.
"Easy in some ways but not in others." The enforcer shrugged, "The other clans here vie fiercely for territory. Every day there are disputes, who sold to who and where. If a resident of one area goes to a different clan's territory to buy, whose sale is that? The wars here are big and only end after many casualties. Every now and again we also get police raids. You probably heard the police don't come in here. They do. But only in squadrons. We get maybe fifteeen-or-twenty at a time, all armed. They come in shoot us up make a few arrests and back out behind a wall of riot shields. It's not all fun and games in Kowloon."
Bi-Han passed the daily life of Kowloon with renewed quietude and observation. Simple transactions and necessities emerged through the tangled anarchy, providing means in strange innovative ways that he never could have predicted. An old man sat smoking on a bench outside his house, but on closer inspection, his bench was an early twentieth century canon, half sunken into the grime of the unpaved alley. Buckets hung from windows, stepped to unalign themselves with buckets on the floor above, catching fresh rainwater for the occupants of the houses. Walkways between high floors blocked out patches of sun but served as a network that eliminated the need for treading the filth and dark of the streets below. Thick clusters of cables climbed up the outside of houses like wild vines while TV antennae clawed out the brickwork and thrust out from the walls as an artificial thicket. Bridges and hanging staircases arched over Bi-Han's head, all with a very rough and ready look to them. He flinched as he walked beneath them, half expecting them to cave on his head. The enforcer guiding him only laughed.
Tiger Chen had converted the concrete remains of a British Army barracks into a lowlight dive bar. Severe brutalist architecture gave way to a grimy but velveteen interior. Like most things in Kowloon, the dive bar looked like it had never seen any sunlight, and smelled like it was slowly disintegrating from the inside out. The people within sported the same thin but wily strength to them as the KBB men Bi-Han had seen earlier. They had the rangy look of wildcats all eager for their next meal. A number of young women hung about with them, but from the way they dressed and laughed and lounged, Bi-Han could tell they were not a part of the Triad structure the way women were in Grace's cell. His eyes flicked over the room, trying to single out Tiger. His target became painfully apparent when a young man with his namesake draped over his shoulders appeared behind the bar. Tiger Chen vaulted over the counter with three beer bottles in each hand, thick tiger pelt flapping on his shoulders. He set the bottles down, threw back his head, gave a loud sniff, and dabbed his nose free of a recreational trail of white dust.
"What's up?"
The room turned vaguely to look at Bi-Han. The sound of laughter and voices dulled to a thick murmur, framed by a fast techno beat coming from a beaten up record player and huge set of amps in the corner.
Bi-Han felt his lips dry again. He had words pre-memorised for this too. But somehow the picture had never looked like this. Tiger had thick eyebrows and a close shaved head. He raised his eyebrows now, urging Bi-Han to speak.
"Uh." Bi-Han gave, "You owe the JFP a fuck ton of money. I'm here to collect."
Not what had been rehearsed.
Heads turned to look at him. Faces tilted and caught a swarm of strange colours reflecting off a tarnished discoball rotating slowly on the ceiling. Tiger Chen stepped forward in a wreath of cigarette smoke. Dark striped fur shimmered fiery orange about his neck.
"JFP? Here?" A slow smile was on his face. Youngsters leaned down from their chairs and tables to leer at Bi-Han. Out-dated revolvers and even an old army rifle were slung about their persons. "Here on your own, Mr Collector? No friends? No firearms?" There were a lot of people in the room. Bi-Han had all their attention now. He could feel excitement welling in his stomach. Be smart. Keep control of the situation. Don't let it come to an open fight. No matter how much you want it. He could practically hear Grace and Sektor in his head. He sighed internally.
"That's right." He said calmly. He let his fearlessness cast its own doubt in their minds. "I was sent by Julius Hau. May I discuss this in private with you, Mr Chen?"
Julius's name caused a ruffle of plumage.
"What does he want? I owe the JFP nothing." There was a sullen petulance to Tiger's tone, as if Bi-Han had just brought the parents into the room.
"Let's find somewhere quieter to talk. I'll explain."
Tiger was subdued enough that he complied. He and a half dozen others collected up drinks and smokes and deposited themselves into a slightly quieter lounge. They left the door to the main bar ajar, Bi-Han noted. He kept the door to his right and within the corner of his eye.
"I don't get it," Tiger said once they were out of the bulk of the noise. "What Uncle Jules' deal? Why would he send someone for me? I chatted to him only two weeks ago and he never mentioned anything. How do I even know you're JFP?"
Bi-Han blinked. He had enough information on this young man to fill a binder worthy of Syun Li-heng, and yet somehow he had missed that Tiger had a personal connection to Julius Hau.
"What's your relationship with Mr Hau?" Bi-Han said guardedly.
"What's yours?!" Tiger returned childishly.
"I was sent here on his orders. To follow up the matter of you owing Kenneth for two kilos of-"
"That was ages ago! And they shot up one of my shop fronts! So its like reparations. Anyway Uncle Jules doesn't care about that stuff. Me and him are tight."
Bi-Han narrowed his eyes. He tried to think like Grace Yeung and not Sub-Zero.
"Julius doesn't care about business?" He mimicked. "Is that what you think?"
"I didn't say that." Tiger said quickly.
"What did you say then? Did it occur to you that on finding out your outstanding debt, you might be less tight with Julian?"
There was quiet in the small room. Tiger's friends made themselves larger on the chairs they occupied. A seven-to-one fight was still odds Sektor would scream at him for committing to.
"Who let you in here?" Tiger snapped, "Have you spoken to my father?"
"He says this is a business you must clear up yourself."
"Fuck him." Tiger said savagely. After a moment he said, "What about Desheng? Did he say anything?"
Bi-Han shook his head.
Tiger stood, shedding his fur coat as he did. It hit the floor in a heavy pile.
"Nothing?" He paced back and forth in the small space, looking thoughtful.
Then he moved. There was a blur and before Bi-Han could flinch, there was a thin knife at his throat. Bi-Han held his composure, eyes wide at the speed and suddenness of the blade.
Tiger suddenly no longer looked like a spoilt child. His shrugged off coat revealed seasoned thick muscled arms with KBB tattoos curling down the biceps. His eyes were sharp and his eyelids were dyed black, creating a skull-like mask when he blinked.
"If you were worth anything, Qian Desheng would have said something. He always steps in to protect me. If he said nothing, it means you are nothing. And I've got leave to finish you the traditional way."
The knife wasn't in his neck, Bi-Han reasoned, trying to calm the cryomancy roaring in his veins, that meant there might be more to this conversation.
"Are you sure?" Bi-Han said mildly. Tiger had already used up the element of surprise. Even at this distance, the knife might cut Bi-Han's throat, but he'd had the time to construct a thick layer of ice below the skin that would protect his artery. Gangsters were showmen first and assassins only after. Never show a blade, was a rule Bi-Han lived by. By the time it was visible, the victim should be dead. "Your father called me a guest of the KBB. I would hate for another of your rash mistakes to lead us into a clan war."
Something flickered on Tiger's face,
"The cocaine wasn't a mistake… Julius… Julius said I could keep it. He said it was a test for Kenneth. He said the boss, your boss, I mean, was testing Kenneth, to see if he was strong enough to uphold JFP honour and come for what was his…"
What the fuck have I got myself into, Bi-Han thought. He took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He needed to keep things simple, all this was peripheral to what mattered.
"Well, I've been asked to come settle the debt. So what'll it be. Will you pay what you owe?"
Tiger lowered his knife slowly. A casual smile grew on his face.
"How about no?" He laughed, looking back at his friends. He cocked an eyebrow as he turned back to Bi-Han. "Go home. Kenneth can come here in person and beg for his money if he wants it so badly. That is if that doddering old man can even walk this far." Tiger laughed again. The laugh magnified as his friends echoed him. They clinked beers and drunk to Tiger's words.
Bi-Han smiled and the low light caught his teeth and made them flash.
"Wrong answer." He said softly and smashed the only bulb in the room.
The door was kicked shut and everything went to total blackness. Tiger turned around in the dark, pulling his knife into a reverse grip. There was commotion and scuffling all about him. He spun at the sound of a crashing chair. There was a smash of a bottle hitting the ground. Tiger found the floor beneath his feet sticky with beer. He kept turning, unable to see in the dark.
"Hey!" He shouted. There was silence. He was breathing hard. He tried to listen for where his friends were. His own breathing was the only sound he could hear. He swallowed down a flicker of doubt that sprung into his throat. As his eyes accustomed he breathed a sigh of relief, he could see his friends all around him, arms raised to defend him. His confidence flowed back strong and proud. A black smirk took his face and he peered into the shadows, looking for his assailant. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His skin crawled and instinctive warning signs jumped through his chest. Something was wrong. Something felt very unnatural. He realised his friends had not moved. They were still. Perfectly still. He reached out a hand to touch – deathly cold. He jumped away, scrabbling to get away from the impossible sight. The shadowy shapes of his friends stood as unmoved, silent, statuesque husks in the ink dark. A low cry of disbelief crept from him as he backed away.
"Don't worry." There was a soft, almost calming voice in his ear. "They will wake again. They are just resting for now. I could kill them, but death is such a messy business. Of course… some business is more messy…"
Tiger felt cold fingers lace around the back of his neck. The primal instinct of prey jumped into his limbs and he sprung from the touch. A firm grasp held him tight, digging into pressure points that almost paralysed his limbs. He twitched and writhed in the painful grip.
"I am going to leave with that money." His captor said matter-of-factly, "One way or another. Now… what am I going to get to do to you before you cave..."
Tiger felt the expert grip, and heard the thrill of excitement in the voice behind him. His insides ran cold. He swallowed, letting his limbs go limp the way his own quarry did when contemplating defeat. He felt the grip behind him alter slightly and took his chance. He thrust his reversed gripped knife back into his attacker's side. There was a hiss of anguish that told Tiger he'd hit his mark, and he leapt away from the grip. He turned his blade and held it before him, panting as he backed into the dark. A thin border of light marked the doorway to the bar. He began to edge very slowly towards it. There were whispers about him in the dark, soft curses in what he vaguely understood to be Mandarin. There was laughter too, amusement. Probably meant to unnerve him, Tiger thought. It was working. His heartbeat was so fast and loud, Tiger could barely hear his own footsteps. He desperately wanted to reach the door, but knew his attacker would anticipate such a move. He was blind again in the dark, only able to catch glimpses of the still silent hulks of his unnaturally immobile friends. He felt himself panicking.
"What did you do to my friends!?" He called loudly, "Is this some kind of game to y-"
A hand closed about his mouth and he felt himself tugged sharply back into a headlock. The sides of his throat were pressed into submission between his attacker's bicep and forearm, and all the resistance went out of Tiger's body as he half fainted onto the floor. Just enough air was kept in his throat to prevent him from passing out. He heard his knife clatter to the ground somewhere. His fingers went to the arm at his neck, trying to loosen the hold.
"You want more air?" The voice said considerately.
Tiger tried to nod, but couldn't move against the grip. He tried to open his mouth but his jaw was rammed firmly shut. He squirmed and a stuttering gasp escaped him.
"No?" The gentle voice asked again, "You only have to say if you need a little more. I'm not unreasonable."
Tiger tried feebly to reply. Unable to do so, he tapped continuously on his attacker's arm, a universal sign amongst martial artists for submission. His attacker seemed not to understand the gesture.
"Well, if it's no trouble to you then…"
Tiger felt himself fading out of consciousness as the arm about his neck constricted. Just before the world went completely black he was given an ounce of air. He sucked it desperately into his lungs. Before he could give them their burning fill, the lock was back on, choking him into oblivion. Dots multiplied across his vision and suffocating dark rose up to take him. Just before he fell into unconsciousness, bursting air was permitted into his starved lungs. He surfaced in a rasping burst like a diver from the deep sucking air in a clawing gasp. In the fraction before he'd drawn in enough to regulate his breathing the muscles squeezed tight on the sides of his neck choking out every morsel he'd just gasped. Tear of frustration and terror welled in his eyes as the dark rose up again, his head pounding and throbbing with the lack of oxygen. Tiger could not tell how longer this persisted, oblivion and sweet relief balanced in a continual cycle that broke his will down to a quivering shivering wreck. His world went small as a pinprick, bullied down to a simple, single craving for that one breath that would relieve him.
There came a point when he realised he'd been permitted to draw two consecutive breaths. He sobbed in relief. His limbs trailed limp on the ground, and he was afraid to touch the arm about his neck lest it tighten again.
"W-whatever you want." He croaked while he had the chance, desperate to get the important words out first. His throat burned with the effort it took to speak. "I'll give you…"
He was released. He sunk slowly back onto his attacker, unable to prevent the collapse.
"Good." He heard the voice, warm and encouraging in his ear. "It's time to run along and fetch the money. Get up."
"One… one moment?" He pleaded. Tiger felt the weight behind him shift, and he closed his eyes tight in anticipation of further pain.
"One moment." His attacker conceded. And Tiger smiled with genuine gratitude in the darkness.
Author Note: Bi-Han's non-violent approach is not to outright kill anyone. I always found it strange in superhero comics when the hero is considered a goodie so long as they never kill anyone. Torture is totally fine, but death - nope that crosses the line. Here's one protagonist that's definitely not got the moral high ground for following that code.