The man was hard to miss, though he did little to draw attention to himself. Broad-shouldered, tall enough to cast a shadow over most, he moved with the kind of quiet ease that made people forget just how large he really was. Those who knew him now only thought of him as the right hand to a powerful name, but he carried himself with the same steady calm as he had as a kid.

The scent of soil, fresh petals, and greenery wrapped around him like a blanket, familiar, steadying. This place was his pocket of calm away from the noise of his world. A place that smelled of damp soil and green life, far removed from smoke-filled backrooms and the heavy silence of deals struck in shadows. The little store tucked on the corner of the street, with the door always propped open when business was running, letting in the smell of soil, fertilizer, and blooms that spilled out onto the sidewalk in mismatched pots.

He adjusted his sleeve as he walked deeper in, scanning the rows of potted herbs reaching lazily for sunlight. The shop smelled of damp soil and cut stems, the kind of scent that settled into him deeper than smoke or whiskey ever could. He’d meant to pick up fertilizer, maybe a few new plants for the garden, if they have any.

Between the rows of potted greenery, he caught sight of the usual shopkeeper. Their posture was stiff, pressed back against the counter while a stranger leaned too close. Another loitered nearby, idly tapping the edge of a pot as if to test how easy it would break. The thug’s voice carried low but sharp, words like protection, trouble, payment threading through the otherwise gentle space. A thick hand tapped against the cashbox as though it already belonged to him. He stilled, blinking once. Not much ever ruffled him, he wasn’t the type to raise his voice, not unless the boss asked it of him. Yet the thug’s words sat poorly in his chest.

The shopkeeper didn’t need this. This place didn’t need this.

Niu Zhen cleared his throat softly, just enough for the sound to carry.

The thugs turned, ready to bark at whoever dared interrupt, but the words caught behind their teeth.

He didn’t glare. Didn’t snarl. He simply stood there, tall enough to make the doorframe look small, his presence pressing heavier than the silence. The kind of presence men carried when too many stories whispered their name.

The words died on his tongue. His posture stiffened, his sneer faltering. The second man followed his gaze, and color drained from his face as recognition set in. The potted plant was set back down with clumsy care, as though it might burn.

Niu Zhen only moved closer, his frame blotting out the light from the doorway, the floor creaking under his steps. When his eyes finally settled on them, it wasn’t anger that weighed down the air, it was the calm certainty of someone who didn’t need to prove a thing. “You’re in my way,” he said simply, tone low, almost bored.

That was all it took.

The thugs exchanged a glance. Then, with a jerky bow of the head, the first one muttered, “S-sorry, Brother Zhen. I didn’t realize…” His words trailed off into a stammer before he grabbed his partner’s sleeve.

They backed toward the door, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to flee.