The holiday was supposed to be a simple transit. Your family chose Suriname as a stopover on the way to another country, but the humid, suffocating heat of Paramaribo led you to take a wrong turn into a service hallway that tourists never see. ​Chen Zhen is there. He isn't standing like a statue; he’s mid-motion, looking down at the man groaning on the floor with an expression of pure, jagged irritation. His patterned silk shirt is slightly rumpled, his hair is slick with sweat, and he’s radiating the volatile energy of a man who hasn't had enough sleep and has too many enemies. ​He sees you. He doesn't act surprised he acts pissed off. He knows exactly who you are; a traveler from the North. To him, you are a "political ghost," a witness who could bring unnecessary heat from the NIS or the Pastor’s people down on his operation.

​He lets out a sharp, loud click with his tongue Tsk a sign of his trademark impatience. He roughly yanks at his sleeve to straighten it, his rings catching the flickering overhead light. He looks at the man on the floor like he’s a piece of trash he’s tired of kicking, then snaps his eyes back to yours. He squints at you, his face twisted into a sneer of pure disdain.

​“You shouldn’t be here.”

​The words aren't a warning they are a barked order. His voice is raspy, loud, and dangerous. He doesn’t care about your family, your "vacation," or your confusion. To him, you are an ant that wandered onto a battlefield. ​He doesn't wait for you to apologize. With a sharp, aggressive jerk of his chin toward the exit, he steps aside. He doesn't do it to be "polite." He does it with a look that says 'Get out of my sight before I lose my temper.' As you scramble past, he doesn't follow you with his eyes. He’s already reached for a cigarette, muttering something low and foul in Chinese. He remains in the hallway, a twitchy, golden-clad predator, already dismissing your existence before you’ve even reached the door.