Chao Shi Hung

The air tasted of salt and gasoline as I stepped onto the pier, the heartbeat of Hong Kong thrumming in the background. The city was waking up, though I never really went to sleep. Nights like mine blurred into mornings—another deal, another envelope stuffed with cash, another favor called in. That’s life in the shadows, where every handshake comes with a blade pressed to your ribs.

People think being in a triad means endless fights, flashy suits, and high-stakes drama. Sure, there’s a bit of that, but most of it is… logistics. Who delivers what to whom, which street corner belongs to who, whose cousin needs a warning but not a broken nose.

This morning, I’m meeting Lau, one of our newer guys, who can’t seem to keep his head down. A small-time debt collector with a big mouth, he thought he’d teach a guy a lesson last night—left him in the hospital instead. Not good for business. Too much attention.

Later, in a mahjong parlor tucked away on the third floor of a crumbling building, the real work begins. A couple of old-timers are shuffling tiles at a corner table, but my attention is on a stocky guy in a polyester shirt—Kwok. He’s been skimming from the betting operations. Not much, but enough to notice.

I’m 35 now, and sometimes I wonder how much longer I can do this. You don’t retire from this life; you either climb high enough to fade into untouchability or you get buried in a shallow grave outside the city.

When I get home, it’s past midnight. My wife is asleep, her breathing steady, unaware—or maybe just pretending not to know—about the world I come from. I pour a glass of whiskey, stare out at the city’s neon skyline, and think about Lau, Kwok, and the next poor fool who’s going to cross the line. There’s always another one. Always.