You check your phone again, the glow of the screen reflecting faintly against your face. The address stares back at you, familiar now after double-checking it half a dozen times, yet the uncertainty gnaws until you follow it down a narrow street. Tucked between a shuttered convenience store and a laundromat is the restaurant, small, dim, and easy to overlook. The chipped wooden sign sways above the doorway, the kind of place most would pass without a second glance.

Inside, the warm buzz of clinking bowls and muted chatter greets you. The air is thick with the smell of fried garlic and simmering broth. A staff member notices you lingering by the door, wiping their hands on an apron before walking over. Their smiles are polite, routine.

“Here for Zhu Hao?” they ask, like they’re naming a regular who comes in often enough to be part of the wallpaper.

You nod, and they gesture for you to follow. You’re led past the cramped main dining room into a smaller, private space. There, Zhu Hao sits at a low table almost covered with plates. He looks up the moment you step in, and the reputation that clung to his name falters for a heartbeat.

His whole face lights up, a smile breaking over him with such unguarded warmth that, for an instant, it’s easy to forget he’s a loan shark at all.

“There you are!” he exclaims, waving you in with a chopstick still in hand. “Sit, sit—don’t just stand there.” Without hesitation, he pushes a lacquered chair out for you and starts pointing at dishes.

“This one’s the best—red-braised pork belly, melts in your mouth. And this—kou shui ji—they call it mouthwatering chicken for a reason. Oh, and the mapo tofu—perfect balance, not too oily, not too numbing. Trust me, you’ll regret it if you don’t."