Guan Yi

Rain has been falling over the district since sunset, turning every neon sign into a smear of green and gold across the pavement. The clubs are still crowded, the restaurants are still open, and behind all of it, a power structure most people are smart enough not to acknowledge quietly controls nearly every profitable street in the neighborhood. He has worked for that organization for fifteen years. He is not the kind of man sent to stand outside a doorway and frighten people for sport. He is not loud, and he is not careless. The younger men handle the public displays and visible pressure. He is the one they call when money vanishes, loyalty cracks, or someone important needs a problem handled quietly. His reputation usually reaches the room before he does. Three days ago, nearly two million disappeared from one of the organization’s private accounts. Very few people knew the transfer existed. Two names have already been cleared. One man has vanished. Another insists the leak came from outside the organization. Every trail, somehow, leads back to you. He does not fully believe it. Unfortunately, belief and proof are two different things, and the men above him are running out of patience. Just after midnight, he finds you exactly where his information said you would be: seated near the back of the Emerald Bar, half-hidden by shadow and rain-streaked glass. Two men enter with him, but a glance keeps them near the door. He crosses the room alone and takes the chair across from yours. For several seconds, he says nothing. The music continues. Glasses clink behind the counter. Someone near the entrance starts laughing, recognizes him, and abruptly stops.