The first time.

"You're not gonna poison me, are you?"

"Not yet, no."

"How reassuring," Sing muttered as he sat down across from Yut-Lung.

It all started when Yut-Lung invited Sing over for tea, without specifying why. Sing suspected he wanted to get information, or just to keep an eye on him, or perhaps both. Two could play at that game, he thought. Besides, he enjoyed riling Yut-Lung up, and he was having a boring afternoon. Might as well have some fun.

Sing wrapped his fingers around the elegantly curved handle of his tea cup. He couldn't quite figure out how he was supposed to hold it, but that didn't matter. Sing didn't care about impressing Yut-Lung or pretending he belonged in the stuffy, artificial world of the wealthy. He was a straightforward guy, without pretense or airs, and he liked to keep his feet on the ground. He preferred to get up close to things, instead of holding them at a distance; to say what he meant, rather than dancing delicately around everything.

In this, as in many things, he and Yut-Lung could not have been more different.

"If you want reassurance," Yut-Lung said, "you're in the wrong line of work."

"Look who's talking."

Yut-Lung sniffed and took a sip of his tea. Meanwhile, Sing studied him carefully, taking in his fitted red and black sweater, black pants, and tight fishtail braid. Then, his face broke into a smile.

"What?" Yut-Lung snapped.

"Are you really wearing ladybug earrings?"

Yut-Lung's face flushed. He lifted a hand and began fidgeting with the pea-sized jewel piercing his earlobe.

"Don't be daft. They're Abrus precatorius seeds[1]. Not real, of course. I had them specially made of ruby and onyx."

"Whatever you have to say to make yourself feel better."

Yut-Lung gave him a swift kick under the table, which, to his chagrin, only made Sing's smile widen.

"Wow, real mature." He took a long, noisy drink of his tea before adding, "That's the sort of thing Lao used to do when we were kids and I pissed him off."

"Your half-brother." It wasn't a question; Yut-Lung knew nearly everything there was to know about Sing. Information made him feel powerful. He could wield facts the way he used his needles: delicately, confidently, and with deadly precision. In both cases, his victims couldn't see what was coming until it was too late.

But, as he was quickly learning, he couldn't manipulate Sing so easily.

"Yep, that's him," Sing said. "I'd make him mad, and then he'd kick me, and then we'd start fighting. Since he was always so much bigger, it took me a long time to beat him. But once I won, I never lost again."

"Surely he must resent you for that."

"Nah, not really. I mean, no one likes losing, but in general, I think he's actually kinda proud of me."

Yut-Lung despised the sharp twinge he felt in his chest at those words, and he moved to smother it as best he could.

"And what do you resent about your brother?" he asked.

Sing leaned back in his chair and frowned. "Is everything about hatred to you?"

"Of course—not just to me, but to everyone. Everyone is motivated by resentment and hatred, Sing."

"Maybe sometimes. But not always. People are motivated—"—here Sing ran a hand through his hair and groaned—"—ugh, I can't believe I'm saying this; it's so cheesy. People can be motivated by love too."

"Only the weak, and then they are brought down by it." Yut-Lung spoke with a calm, even tone, but he could feel himself losing his footing. He wasn't used to spending time with people who pushed back on his every word (aside from his brothers, of course). Sing was not only too clever but also too open, and he needed to learn that those qualities would only get him hurt. "And you didn't answer my question."

"Why does it matter to you what I think of my brother? And what makes you think I'd tell you?"

On the one hand, the game Yut-Lung was playing was obvious. On the other, Sing sensed a strange undercurrent to Yut-Lung's line of questioning that had nothing to do with trying to find and exploit the Chinatown gang's weaknesses. All this talk about brothers seemed to have struck a nerve. Sing knew little for certain about Yut-Lung's relationship with his family—hell, he didn't know much about Yut-Lung, save what he'd been able to observe during their few encounters—but he couldn't imagine it was at all warm. What would life be like, Sing wondered, if Lao constantly ordered him around and watched his every move for any sign of disloyalty? If they couldn't trust each other, count on each other, protect each other from the myriad threats lurking behind every corner?

What if every time Sing turned to his family for reassurance, they only twisted the knife in his wounds?

"Fine, then," said Yut-Lung, "don't tell me."

He took another sip of his tea and then began examining his fingernails, indicating that the conversation had ended, as far as he was concerned.

Sing heaved a sigh and thought, Here he goes again. Emotions he didn't fully understand were colliding inside him, creating sparks that threatened to turn into a blaze if Yut-Lung insisted on continuing to be a complete ass about, well, everything.

And yet.

Against his better judgment, Sing found his heart going out to him.

"You know," said Sing, "if you wanna say something to me, you should just come out and say it. Maybe you'd be more likely to get what you want. Whatever that is."

Then, deciding to take the risk, he added, "And maybe I'd be more willing to listen. More willing than you think, anyway."

To his surprise, Sing could've sworn Yut-Lung's face softened. But the subtle change lasted only a fraction of a second, and then Yut-Lung's eyes were narrowing, leaving Sing to wonder if he'd simply imagined the strange sadness and vulnerability that lay beyond the boy's stone-cold façade.

"I have nothing further to discuss with you at this time," Yut-Lung said. "You should go."

As much as he wanted to protest, Sing knew he'd already pushed his luck pretty far. Any attempt to reach out again would probably just backfire. Frowning, he got up, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked toward the ornate door. Before leaving, he glanced back at Yut-Lung, who had picked up the newspaper from the chaise and begun reading as if Sing weren't still there.

I don't know what's up with him, Sing thought, but I'm sure as hell gonna find out.

[1] Abrus precatorius, also known as rosary pea, is a plant with poisonous seeds (which do kinda look like ladybugs at first glance).