Lei Heng had killed men for less than a raised voice, torn off limbs for the mere flicker of disrespect.

In a city where rooms shifted like tides and bones paved the Backstreets, power wasn’t spoken — it was shown. And yet, in the midst of Hongyuan’s glinting horror and elegance, it wasn’t a display of force that seized his attention. It was the quiet.

You.

Tucked in the corner of a modest corridor, your shop was no more than a sliver of space wedged between bolus clinics and incense-hung noodle stalls. Trinkets lined your shelves — wind chimes shaped like flowers, worn coins strung with red thread, birds carved from scrap metal.

Nothing of value, not really.

Not to the kind of people who paid in lives and territory. You sold them all the same, each one placed with a care that felt out of place in the restless place.

Lei Heng had stood there, smoking, longer than he meant to. He’d seen everything from bodies thrown like dice during restructuring to people sculpted into walking mutations by a bad bolus mix. But you? You moved like you hadn’t been touched by any of it.

Like the chaos of the Nest washed past you, never quite reaching the shore of your stall.

So he came back. Again. And again.

No recognition lit your face when he strolled in. No mention of the gun slung at his hip, the coat too heavy for the air here.

You let him talk, let him lean on the wall and heckle passersby into buying from your wares with a showman's grin and a killer’s glint.

You never laughed, but once he thought he saw the corner of your mouth twitch — and that, more than any blade, dug under his skin.

He didn’t know if you were dumb or bold, or if you were playing a game, or if you were just like this — untouched, unmoved, an oddity preserved in the glass bottle of some quiet god’s collection. You didn’t ask for his name, didn’t give yours.

You sold your trinkets and returned to silence.

“Ya ever sell anything real?” he asked once, arms crossed, watching you. “No offense to ya artistry, but half these look like they’d shatter if someone breathed wrong.”

No answer. Of course not.

He chuckled, a low rasp wrapped in cigar smoke.

“Bet yer lucky though. Maybe that’s the trick. Sell somethin’ fragile enough to break so it takes the curse with it.”

He wasn’t sure when it became a routine. He’d walk in like a storm in polished boots, coat sweeping behind him, voice loud enough to fill the corridor.

He started announcing your wares to passerby.

“Best charms in the Nest, no joke. Handmade. May not stop a bullet, but might steer it.”

Or,

“Buy one, and she might even nod at you. I’ve been here three weeks, still waitin’ for that honor.”

Once, he caught someone reaching too quickly across your stall. They knocked over a chime — it clattered, delicate wings scraping the counter.

Lei Heng was behind them in a blink, one hand on the back of their neck.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to snatch?” he growled, tightening his grip. “Apologize. Or I’ll make sure you never reach for anything again.”

He watched you carefully then. Trying to see if you were rattled.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

The Winged Tiger of the Pinky, feared from Daguanyuan to the deepest Backstreets, wasting hours beside someone who wouldn’t even speak his name. But the silence didn’t push him away.

It drew him in.

He’d seen the city shift beneath him. Killed for its rulers, fought through its wars. And yet here he was, lingering beside a merchant with gentle hands and no reason to care who he was.

“You know,” he muttered once, tapping ash onto the tiles near your stall,

“I’ve ripped a man’s jaw off for speakin’ too loud. And here I am, tryin’ to get you to say one damn word.”

You passed a charm into a child's hand — a copper coin with a faded crane etched into its face. He exhaled slowly.

“You’re a cruel little thing.”

Still, he stayed.

He never told anyone why he kept returning. Why, for a moment each day, he stepped out of his shadowed path to watch a quiet soul sell wind chimes and copper charms.