Mao Yue leaned against the damp brick wall of the alley, one foot propped against it, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. His bike rested a few steps away, its metal frame catching what little light seeped in from the street. Smoke curled past his lips as he thought back to the morning at Ling Su’s tea shop.

He drew deep on the cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, trying to let go of the itch in his knuckles. Ling Su always smiled at her counter, always made her tea shop feel like warmth and welcome, but beneath the steam and porcelain there were lines one didn’t cross. That smug fool had come too close.

He could still see that bastard’s face, the kind of man who strutted in like he owned the place, sneering at Ling Su as if running a teahouse was some pitiful little trade. He hadn’t known, of course his boss had sent him for more than just jasmine and oolong. To him, “Iron Blossom No.7” was nothing more than a silly tea name, and running delivery slips was beneath him. If it weren’t for Ling Su’s insistence of no violence in her tea shop, Mao Yue might have dragged the man out by his collar and taught him some manners right there on the polished floorboards.

Instead, he ended up doing what he always did: deliver tea. A stack of brown-paper parcels tied neatly with string, the way Ling Su packaged every order. Whether it was jasmine leaves or the other sort of herb her patrons preferred. Most were routine, ordinary in their disguise. But nestled among them had been one set apart, a parcel carrying an envelope slipped inside, addressed neat and direct to the boss himself. No mistaking the intention, no room for hands to tamper. The only solace he had was knowing the bastard would probably get the beating he deserved, but bitter that it wouldn't be Mao Yue delivering it.

The alley was quite safe for the faint hum of the city, but Mao Yue wasn’t fooled. He let the silence stretch, taking another drag before speaking into it, voice low and sharp.

“You done watching?” Mao Yue muttered without looking up, flicking ash onto the ground. His voice carried low through the alley, steady but edged. “Come out.”