As Tòumíng ate his way through the incredible spread, currently working on his third piece of Char Siu while eyeing the orange chicken, Cupid's voice cut through his food-induced bliss.
"When are you going to take care of "IT?"" Cupid asked, his tone carrying weight that suggested this was important.
Tòumíng swallowed his mouthful of pork, confused. "What 'it'? What are you talking about?"
"YOU KNOW!" Cupid's voice rose with frustration. "THE ENTIRE REASON I HELPED YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE! 'IT'!"
Tòumíng genuinely had no idea what Cupid was referring to. His brain ran through recent events, the mine, the villa, the auction, Ghost Claw, the trafficking ring, the skills—
"NO, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!" Cupid's voice exploded in his chest. "HǓTĀN! THE MAN YOU OWE MONEY TO! AND THE OTHER THREE LOAN SHARKS! THE DEBT! THE WHOLE REASON YOUR LIFE WAS SHIT BEFORE YOU DIED!"
"Ohhhhh," Tòumíng said out loud, the realization hitting him. "The debt. Right. That."
It felt like years ago, even though it had only been a few weeks. The crushing weight of inherited debt. The monthly payments to three different loan sharks. The additional thirty thousand yuan per month to Hǔtān, the silent gang leader with the tiger tattoo. The constant fear of being late, of the interest rates, of the violence that came with missed payments.
"I don't wanna pay," Tòumíng said simply, taking another bite of Char Siu.
"YOU NEED TO PAY!" Cupid's voice was urgent, panicked. "OR ELSE HǓTĀN IS GOING TO KIL—"
Cupid stopped mid-word, the realization hitting him at the same time it hit Tòumíng.
"Oh wait," Cupid said slowly. "You can't die."
"YEAH!" Tòumíng's voice rose with excitement, drawing confused looks from the others at the table. "He CAN'T kill me! I don't have to keep being taken advantage of by Hǔtān! I don't have to live in fear of some silent asshole with a tiger tattoo who's been bleeding me dry for three years!"
The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Three years. THREE YEARS of living in absolute terror. Of scraping together thirty thousand yuan every month through smuggling and desperation. Of knowing that being even one day late meant broken bones or worse. Of carrying the weight of his parents' terrible financial decisions on his shoulders like he somehow deserved to suffer for their choices.
And now? Now he was immortal. Now he had supernatural abilities. Now he had skills that made him dangerous, valuable, powerful.
"If I need to beat the fuck out of the man I've owed money to for the last three years of my life..." Tòumíng grinned, the expression feral and slightly unhinged. "Then so be it."
He stood up from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I'm beating that fucker today."
Then he sat back down and grabbed more orange chicken.
"But firrrrst... I need to eat. Gotta fuel up properly."
Ghost Claw, who'd been quietly demolishing her slice of cake, had overheard Tòumíng talking to himself again. She couldn't hear Cupid's side of the conversation, but she'd caught enough fragments to piece together the general situation. (btw this mask has a feeding hole, she didn't take off the mask)
"Do you need help confronting a crime boss or anything like that?" she asked, her tone casual but her body language suggesting genuine willingness to provide backup.
Tòumíng shook his head, his mouth full of chicken. He swallowed and said firmly, "I have to do this by myself. This is personal. Three years of debt, three years of fear, three years of being under this guy's thumb. I need to handle it alone."
Svetlana, who'd finished her Grudinka and was now eyeing the pulled pork sandwich, slapped Tòumíng on the back with enough force to nearly knock the wind out of him.
"I like courage on you," she said, her eyes sparkling with approval. "You keep this up and I might just marry you."
Tòumíng choked slightly on his orange chicken. "Wait, what?"
Svetlana immediately changed the subject, turning to Polo with commanding energy. "Buzzcut boy! Alcohol! Give round for everyone!"
Polo, who'd temporarily stopped arguing with Marco to actually eat some of the food they'd prepared, nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned moments later carrying three bottles of 750ml unlabeled whiskey, the kind of stuff that was either incredibly good or incredibly dangerous, with no middle ground.
Tòumíng had never drunk alcohol before. His parents had been too broke to afford it, and after they died, he'd been too focused on survival to develop any recreational habits that cost money.
Svetlana poured herself a shot glass, looked at it with disdain, then just started chugging directly from the bottle. Her throat worked as she swallowed, easily downing what had to be at least a quarter of the bottle in one continuous gulp before slamming it back on the table with a satisfied exhale.
She poured another shot glass and handed it to Tòumíng. "You try. Build courage for crime boss fight."
Tòumíng took the small glass, examining the amber liquid inside. It smelled strong—burning his nostrils even from a distance.
Think Tink The Tinkerer's hand wandered toward one of the bottles, his eyes tracking it with the focus of someone who desperately wanted to experiment with mixing alcohol and Monster Energy.
Ghost Claw slapped his hand away with a sharp crack. "You're seventeen. No."
Think Tink The Tinkerer pouted dramatically, his bottom lip jutting out, before shuffling over to a corner with Cfuar. He sat down and started petting the lizard while muttering about "arbitrary age restrictions" and "legal definitions of adulthood being socially constructed."
Tòumíng looked at the shot glass in his hand, took a deep breath, and made a decision.
He threw it back, the liquid burning a path down his throat like liquid fire. His eyes watered. His chest felt like it was being set ablaze from the inside. Every instinct screamed that he'd just consumed poison.
But then the warmth spread through his body, settling into something almost pleasant. Confidence bloomed in his chest—artificial, alcohol-induced, but real enough.
He slammed the empty shot glass down on the table with more force than necessary and threw his hands in the air.
"WOOOOOOOOO!"
The shout echoed through the cafeteria, startling everyone except Svetlana, who grinned with approval.
Tòumíng stood up from the table, his movements energized, adrenaline mixing with alcohol mixing with supernatural confidence from his various abilities. He stretched, cracked his neck, did a few jumping jacks like he was warming up for a fight.
"I've got business to attend to," he announced to the room, his voice carrying the kind of reckless confidence that came from being immortal and slightly drunk.
He started walking toward the exit, his steps determined, his mind already running through scenarios of confronting Hǔtān—the silent gang leader who'd been a source of terror for three years.
As he reached the door, he turned back and grinned at the assembled group.
"I think it's time me and Hǔtān have a little chat."