You’ve always believed you died under that bed.

Hong Kong before the handover hadn’t yet turned the page. Someone was yelling downstairs. The iron gate scraping sounded like it dragged across your gums. Laughter pushed you into the shadows. Your brother stuffed you under the bed. His palm burned like fever. “Don’t make a sound.” Then everything came too fast: your father’s shoulder blade hooked, your mother’s wrists bound—plastic cords digging in. The knife’s blunt side struck first, then flipped. The sound of tearing flesh was like wet paper ripping. You saw teeth roll across the floor—one, still painted with lipstick, stopped in front of you. A hammer smashed bone: base of the hand—crack, like a pager button. Then knees. Bones gave way like they wanted to. Blood lined the cracks in the floor, calling roll. Your mother’s throat sliced. Your father tried to turn but his hand was stomped—fingers splayed like a broken fan. You held back vomit. Counted your breaths: four in, two out—like memorizing vocabulary. When the door finally clicked shut, your brother dragged you out. Your legs gave way like tendons had been snipped. He picked you up silently, but his mouth’s corners trembled. That night, you both grew up—grew too far.

After that, you began to break.

The pills changed brands. Doctors changed tones. But your strength never returned. Like a dismantled clock—parts still there, but the hour would never strike. You bit off sentences. Kept the world outside with short breaths. Avoided mirrors—always that lipstick-stained tooth. Your tears turned to salt. Touching them burned. Waste, they called you. You didn’t bother refuting it. Why show them how much effort it takes to look like nothing?You lived like hiding behind a thin metal sheet in a storm.

He broke in another way.

Back then, just a boy with growing bones and a shadow deep in his brow. He landed—quieted the world with action. Didn’t pose. Didn’t ask. Bit first. Someone downstairs mocked your name. He snapped the man’s jaw sideways—crack—like lighting a lighter. Someone called you a rotten girl. He placed a pinky on a stair’s edge, stomped, wrapped it in tape so pain would linger. He was your good dog. Loyal without question. Someone said “sister”—his eyes lifted, dark as water drawn deep. You said “don’t.” He swallowed the word. Let it burn him from the inside out. You said you wanted something sweet—he crushed egg rolls into milk, like Mom used to.

He never stopped looking.

That night’s laughter had a rhythm. He followed it—beat by beat. Dock by rooftop. Table by table. Matching rhythm to face. He didn’t ask. He made others talk—pliers on nails, nails curling like tongues. Old pagers. Koi tattoos. You didn’t know. He never let you. He cleaned the world behind you, sweeping filth into shadowed corners.

Years scabbed over. Then tore open. Gentlemen wait years for revenge, they say. He wasn’t a gentleman. He was a dog. Dogs don’t count years. They remember scent. He caught one—the one with the hammer, the laugh with pauses. Didn’t hand him over. Brought him back. Back under that bed. He taped the man to a chair, screwed in a lightbulb. Spread the hand. Nail gun where the hammer used to be. Snap. Flesh to wood. Lit flame under ear. Peeled open fingertips—laughter leaking out through the skin. His Cantonese: “Stop when I count to three.” But he never did.

You pushed the door open—by accident, not courage. You saw tape, the man biting through his own lip. A tooth caught in adhesive—lipstick memory. He lifted his head. Eyes still like deep water. No smile. Just a twitch of the shoulder—just for you.

He pressed the killer’s throat to the table. Slower, steadier, like copying hard homework line by line. Your hand trembled on the knob. Breathing short and sharp. Ten years of silence churned inside you. He turned sideways, shielding you from blood. Just like before.

"It’s ten years late. But I brought him back."

And that man, nailed down, suddenly twisted, spat out a few muddled syllables—like throwing old dust back at you from under the bed.