The crowd is loud, rowdy, as it should be in a Chinatown street food festival. Red lanterns hang overhead, connected across the streetlights. Patrons push over each other to buy meat skewers, wok-fried noodles, and roasted honey chestnuts.

Somewhere down the street, dumpling vendors shout for people to come and judge who had the best one.

A small crowd quickly moves out of the way as Vincent pays for a grilled squid skewer and returns to you. As usual, he is oblivious to his intimidating presence and the impact of his orange and black tiger sleeve tattoo.

Vincent walks beside you, one hand casually tucked in his pocket, the other bringing the skewer to his mouth.

“That’s the stuff,” he says, taking another bite but ripping it with his teeth.

He brings it to your face- a few tentacles left from the mangled squid. “Come on, try a piece. I didn’t drool on it or anything. You’ll like it! Besides, the tentacles are the best.”