As Tòumíng exited the building, still riding the wave of alcohol-induced confidence and adrenaline, Eric's truck pulled into the driveway with perfect timing. The engine rumbled to a stop, and Eric leaned out the window.
"Need a ride?" he called out, his Southern accent more pronounced now that Tòumíng was actually listening for it.
"Can you drive me home? I need to grab something real quick," Tòumíng said, his words slightly slurred, a hiccup punctuating the sentence.
Eric nodded, gesturing to the passenger side. "Hop in."
Tòumíng climbed into the truck, his first time actually entering the vehicle properly rather than just being dropped off. The interior was surprisingly clean for a truck driver's personal vehicle. Air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. A few country music CDs scattered in the cup holders. The faint smell of leather and diesel.
Tòumíng was mentally GONE. Completely checked out. The alcohol had hit him harder than expected, probably because he'd never drunk before and had chugged the shot on an empty stomach before immediately filling said stomach with rich, heavy food.
He hiccupped like a maniac, his body jerking with each involuntary spasm. "Hic—hic—HIC—"
Halfway through the drive, Tòumíng turned to look at Eric with the kind of intense, unfocused stare that only drunk people could achieve. He squinted, processing Eric's appearance with alcohol-addled observation skills.
"Hic—you look like a cowboy."
Eric chuckled, a genuine warm sound.
"I moved to America when I was two years old. Tennessee, actually. Grew up there, learned to drive trucks there, got the whole Southern thing embedded pretty deep. Moved back here when I was nineteen to take care of my grandparents. Been about two years since I've been back home."
Tòumíng processed this information slowly, his brain working at quarter-speed. Then, with the profound wisdom of the intoxicated, he declared: "Hic—you look American."
That was it. That was the entire observation. No elaboration. No follow-up.
Eric laughed harder. "Yeah, I get that a lot."
Tòumíng was on another planet. His mind had left Earth entirely and was currently orbiting somewhere near Mars, completely detached from reality, riding the alcohol high while his body automatically maintained basic functions like breathing and sitting upright.
"JEEZE," Cupid's voice cut through the fog. "The day you try weed is the day you ascend to a higher plane of existence. You're already gone from one shot of whiskey. Imagine if you actually got properly drunk."
Tòumíng didn't respond. Couldn't respond. His consciousness was too busy floating somewhere in the upper atmosphere to process Cupid's commentary.
Eventually, they reached Guanlan Lake. Eric pulled up to the villa's front gate, and Tòumíng stumbled out of the truck with the coordination of a newborn giraffe learning to walk.
"Thanks—hic—Eric!" he called back, slamming the door and immediately walking into the gate before realizing it needed to be opened first.
He fumbled with the security code—entering it wrong twice before finally getting it right—and staggered up the driveway to the front door.
Měi Nán still wasn't back. The villa was empty, silent, all the lights off except for the automatic exterior ones that had activated at dusk.
Tòumíng made his way upstairs, his feet somehow finding the steps despite his compromised spatial awareness. He went directly to the master bedroom, to the safe with its embarrassingly simple 000001 password, and pulled out the compressed azurite pebble.
The one-and-a-half-million-yuan gem. His insurance policy. His bargaining chip.
He needed this for the deal with Hǔtān. Needed something valuable enough to make the conversation go the way he wanted.
On his way back downstairs, his foot missed a step.
He tumbled forward, arms windmilling uselessly, his body ragdolling down the stairs in a series of painful impacts—shoulder, hip, back, shoulder again—before finally coming to rest at the bottom in an undignified heap.
He lay there for a moment, assessing damage. Nothing broken. Nothing bleeding. Just bruises that would heal quickly thanks to his enhanced physiology.
"You good?" Cupid asked, genuine concern in his voice.
"Hic—I'm fine," Tòumíng said, pushing himself to his feet with the dignity of someone who absolutely was not fine but was determined to pretend otherwise.
He dusted himself off, checked that the azurite pebble was still secure in his pocket, and managed to walk back to the truck with something approximating grace, if grace meant "not actively falling over."
Eric raised an eyebrow as Tòumíng climbed back in but said nothing about the visible dust on his clothes or the slightly dazed expression.
By the time they reached the area near Hǔtān's territory, Tòumíng had descended from Mars back into Earth's lower atmosphere. Still drunk, still hiccupping occasionally, but functional enough to give Eric directions.
"Left here—hic—then two blocks down—hic—stop at the corner."
Eric followed the directions, finally pulling over in a spot that gave Tòumíng a good vantage point of the surrounding area without being too obvious.
"You sure about this?" Eric asked, his tone suggesting he'd picked up on the fact that Tòumíng was about to do something potentially stupid.
"Hic—yeah. Thanks for the ride."
Tòumíng hopped out of the truck, his legs still slightly unsteady but improving with each passing minute as his enhanced metabolism processed the alcohol faster than a normal person's would.
Cupid's voice cut through immediately, worried and sharp. "How the fuck are you gonna beat Hǔtān looking like this? You're still drunk! You can barely walk straight!"
"It's fineeeeee," Tòumíng said, waving dismissively at his own chest like he was physically brushing away Cupid's concerns.
"It's fine! I just need to outlast him, right? Simpleeeee. Can't kill me. Schrödinger's Heart. Quantum superposition. I'm basically invincible."
"That's not how—"
"Simplllleeee!" Tòumíng repeated, his slurred speech undermining his confident assertion.
He started walking, his path only slightly meandering, covering about three blocks through increasingly familiar territory. The streets got narrower, dirtier, more run-down. Gang tags appeared on walls. The people he passed gave him wary looks, clearly recognizing that he didn't belong here despite having lived nearby for years.
Eventually, he reached it.
Hǔtān's cover business. A moderately upscale establishment that served as a front for loan collection, gang meetings, and various other criminal enterprises. Tòumíng had been here dozens of times over the past three years, always with cash, always terrified, always hoping this month wouldn't be the month he came up short.
The exterior looked the same, red lanterns hanging from the awning, gold lettering on the windows, the faint smell of Sichuan cuisine drifting into the street.
Tòumíng took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, trying to channel the confidence from earlier when he'd been surrounded by his new vigilante friends and riding the high of the Naked Gun title.
"Okay," he said to himself, to Cupid, to the universe in general. "I'm doing this."