Scarface
Chan Yuan arrived at his wife's apartment building, the place he used to call home before the divorce papers, before the restraining order, before everything fell apart. He parked his beat-up Highlander, still stained with Tòumíng's blood and flesh despite his best cleaning efforts, and took a deep breath before getting out.
The building was nice. Nicer than anywhere he could afford. His wife had remarried well, some accountant or lawyer or something legitimate. Someone who wore suits and worked in offices and didn't come home with bruises and blood under his fingernails.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor, his jaw still aching from where Tòumíng had kicked him, his ribs protesting with each step. He knocked on the door.
It opened immediately, like she'd been waiting.
His ex-wife stood there, her expression hardening the moment she saw him. "You're late."
"Traffic was—"
"You're always late. That's the problem with you, Chan Yuan. Always late. Always making excuses. Always disappointing everyone around you."
He bit his tongue. Didn't respond. Just stood there taking it because what else could he do?
"And you look like shit," she continued, her eyes scanning his bruised face.
"More fights? More gang bullshit? This is exactly why I don't want you around our son. You're a bad influence. You're violent. You're—"
"Can I just see him?" Chan Yuan's voice was quiet, defeated. "Please. I drove an hour to get here."
"You're lucky I'm letting you see him at all. The custody agreement says supervised visitation only, and I'm being GENEROUS by even allowing this."
She stepped aside, letting him enter the apartment. It was exactly as nice as he'd imagined. Hardwood floors. Modern furniture. Family photos on the walls—his ex-wife, her new husband, and his son, all smiling like a perfect unit. Chan Yuan wasn't in any of the photos.
"Thirty minutes," she said coldly.
"Not a second longer. And if you say ONE WORD about your gang activities, I'm calling the police and filing for a complete termination of parental rights. Understand?"
"I understand."
"And take off your shoes. I just had the floors cleaned."
Chan Yuan removed his shoes and stood awkwardly in the entryway, waiting.
His ex-wife called down the hallway. "Xiǎo Bǎo! Your father is here!"
Silence. Then small footsteps running.
His son appeared, seven years old, wearing pajamas with cartoon characters on them, his hair messy from playing. But his face was red, his eyes puffy. He'd been crying.
"Why are you yelling at each other?" His voice was small, broken.
"Why can't you just love each other like other parents? Why do you have to fight every time?"
His ex-wife's expression softened for a moment, guilt flashing across her features. Then it hardened again. "Xiǎo Bǎo, adults sometimes have disagreements. It's complicated. You wouldn't understand."
"I DO understand! I understand that you hate Dad and won't let me see him and it's NOT FAIR!"
"That's enough." Her voice rose.
"Go to your room. Now."
"NO!"
"Xiǎo Bǎo—"
"I HATE THIS! I HATE IT!"
Chan Yuan knelt down, bringing himself to his son's eye level. "Hey. Hey, buddy. It's okay. Your mom and I... we're just talking. Adults talk loud sometimes. It doesn't mean anything bad."
His son looked at him with those wide, teary eyes. "Do you still love Mom?"
Chan Yuan's throat closed up. He glanced at his ex-wife, who was staring daggers at him, daring him to say the wrong thing.
"I... I want what's best for you, buddy. That's all that matters."
His ex-wife scoffed and walked away, disappearing into the master bedroom and slamming the door.
Chan Yuan pulled his son into a hug, feeling the small body shake with suppressed sobs. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. Listen, you know what? Let's go to the movies. Just you and me. What do you say?"
His son pulled back, wiping his eyes. "Really? Can we see the new superhero movie?"
"Absolutely. Whatever you want."
"YAYYYY!" The transformation was instant, tears replaced with excitement, the resilience of childhood on full display. "Can we get popcorn? And candy? And—"
"Whatever you want, buddy." Chan Yuan ruffled his hair, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. "Go get your jacket. And tell your mom we're leaving."
As his son ran off to get ready, Chan Yuan stood in the entryway of the apartment that used to be his, looking at the family photos that didn't include him, wondering when everything had gone so wrong.
Smoke
Ming arrived at Longhua General Hospital carrying a bouquet of cheap flowers, the kind you could get from the convenience store for thirty yuan. Daisies, mostly. His mother's favorite.
He was still hurt from the fight, his temple bandaged where Tòumíng's punch had connected, his body moving stiffly from various bruises and impacts. But he'd cleaned up as best he could, changed into a button-up shirt and slacks, tried to look presentable.
Corporate. His mother still thought he worked in corporate. Some made-up position at some made-up company. He'd been maintaining the lie for three years.
He took the elevator to the fourth floor, oncology ward, and walked down the familiar hallway to room 447.
He knocked softly before entering.
His mother was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine, an IV line running into her arm. She looked thinner than last week. Frailer. The chemotherapy was taking its toll.
Her face lit up when she saw him. "Ming! You came!"
"Of course I came, Mom. I come every week."
Then her expression shifted to concern. "What happened to your face? That bandage—are you getting into fights?"
"No, Mom. I'm fine. Just... just an accident at work. Slipped on some stairs. Hit my head. Nothing serious."
She set down her magazine and gave him that look—the one that said she didn't believe him but was choosing not to push.
"Ming. You need to be more careful. Your body isn't invincible. You're not a young man anymore."
"I'm thirty-two."
"Exactly. Not young. You need to take care of yourself."
Ming set the flowers in a vase on her bedside table and sat in the visitor's chair. "How are you feeling?"
"Oh, you know. Tired. But the doctors say the treatment is working." She reached out and grabbed his hand, her grip weak. "Ming, promise me something."
"Anything."
"Promise me you'll stop getting into fights. Promise me you'll focus on your work. On building a real career. I don't want you wasting your life on... on whatever it is you're actually doing."
Ming felt his throat tighten. She knew. Of course she knew. Mothers always knew.
"I promise, Mom."
"I'm serious, Ming. I won't be around forever to—"
"Don't talk like that."
"I'm being realistic. The cancer is spreading. We both know that. And when I'm gone, I need to know you'll be okay. That you'll live a good life. An honest life."
Ming held back tears, his jaw clenching. "I promise. I'll stop. I'll get out. I'll find real work."
She smiled, squeezing his hand. "Good. That's all I want. That's all I've ever wanted."
They talked for another hour, small talk, mostly. She showed him articles from her magazine. He told her made-up stories about his made-up corporate job. They laughed together. For a while, it felt normal.
When visiting hours ended, Ming kissed her forehead and left.
He found her doctor in the hallway, Dr. Chen, the oncologist who'd been treating her for two years.
"How is she? Really?"
Dr. Chen's expression was professionally sympathetic. "The leukemia is spreading, but it hasn't progressed in lethality. Her current condition is stable. We're continuing the chemotherapy regimen, but..." He paused. "You should prepare yourself. These things rarely improve at this stage."
Ming nodded, his face carefully neutral. "How long?"
"Difficult to say. Could be months. Could be years. She's a fighter."
"Yeah. She is."
Ming walked to his car, a beat-up sedan with rust spots and a cracked windshield—got in, locked the doors, and completely broke down.
He sobbed. Balled his eyes out. Screamed into his hands. Punched the steering wheel until his knuckles bled.
His mother was dying. He was a gangster pretending to be legitimate. He'd just gotten knocked unconscious by a nineteen-year-old kid. Everything was falling apart.
He cried until he had nothing left, then sat in silence, staring at nothing, wondering how his life had become this.
Pàng Hǔ
Pàng Hǔ lay in his hospital bed while two nurses carefully replaced his bandages. His massive frame—six-foot-six, 350 pounds—made the hospital bed look comically small.
The doctors had delivered the news an hour ago. His jaw had healed—the fracture was minor, would be fine in a few weeks. But his testicles and eyeballs were beyond saving.
Tòumíng had destroyed them too thoroughly. The testicles were crushed beyond reconstruction. Both eyes were permanently damaged, Tòumíng's fingers had ruptured the globes, and while they could be fitted with prosthetics eventually, he'd never see again.
Blind. Castrated. Permanently disabled.
"Can you be more careful?" Pàng Hǔ snapped at one of the nurses as she adjusted the bandages around his groin. "You're hurting me!"
"I'm being as gentle as possible, sir. The area is very sensitive and—"
"I DON'T CARE! JUST DO IT RIGHT!"
The nurse flinched, her hands trembling slightly as she continued working.
"And YOU!" Pàng Hǔ turned his bandaged head toward where he thought the other nurse was standing. "Why is this taking so long? Are you incompetent? Did you even go to medical school?"
"Sir, please calm down—"
"DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! I'M BLIND! I'M—" He stopped himself, not wanting to say the word out loud. "I'm permanently injured and you people are treating me like I'm some kind of inconvenience!"
The first nurse, a young woman who looked barely out of nursing school, suddenly ran from the room, tears streaming down her face.
Pàng Hǔ heard the door slam. "Good! Run away! That's what all you people do! Useless!"
Outside the room, several doctors and nurses who'd witnessed the outburst gathered in the hallway.
"He's been like this since he woke up," one doctor muttered. "Abusive to every staff member. Threw a bedpan at someone yesterday."
"Can we sedate him?"
"Already maxed out on what's medically advisable."
"Poor guy. But still... doesn't excuse treating people like that."
"I heard he got into a fight. Some personal dispute. Got what was coming to him, if you ask me."
They dispersed, leaving Pàng Hǔ alone in his room, blind and raging, with nobody willing to help him.
Donny
Donny sat on his bed in his tiny apartment, phone pressed to his ear, tears streaming down his face as he talked to his mother.
"I'm so sorry, Mom. I'm so, so sorry. I know I promised I wouldn't get involved with gangs again but they said easy money and I needed to pay rent and I thought just this once and—"
His mother's voice cut through, sharp and worried. "Donny! Slow down! What happened? Are you hurt?"
"No! Well, I mean, I was there when it happened but I ran and this guy, this TERRIFYING guy who looked like a corpse, he told me to run and I ran and everyone else got beat up but I'm okay I'm okay I just—"
"DONNY!"
He stopped, sobbing.
"Take a breath. Start from the beginning."
Donny took a shaky breath and explained. The fifty-man raid. The fight. The walking nightmare that was Tòumíng. How he'd been given a chance to escape and had taken it.
"And I swear, Mom, I SWEAR I'm done with gangs. I'm never doing this again. I'll get a real job. I'll work at a convenience store. I'll do anything. I just—I was so scared. I thought I was going to die."
His mother was silent for a long moment. Then: "You're an idiot."
"I know."
"A complete idiot."
"I know."
"But I'm glad you're okay." Her voice softened. "Donny, please. PLEASE stop making these stupid decisions. You're twenty-three years old. You should be building a career, not running from gang fights."
"I know, Mom. I'm sorry."
"Come home this weekend. We'll figure this out together."
"Okay. Okay, I will. I love you."
"I love you too, you idiot."
She hung up. Donny sat on his bed, still crying, but feeling slightly less alone.
The Three Survivors
Three gang members, the only ones who'd managed to escape the building collapse before it fully came down, sat in a cramped apartment pooling their money on a coffee table.
Cash. Crumpled bills in various denominations. Yuan notes stacked haphazardly.
"How much do we have?" one of them asked.
The second one counted quickly. "Eighty-three thousand."
"That's it? After three years?"
"Most of it went to Hǔtān. Monthly dues. Protection fees. You know how it is."
The third one leaned back in his chair. "Is this enough to leave? To actually get out?"
"Maybe. If we're smart. Move to a different city. Change our names. Get legitimate jobs."
"You think they'll let us leave?"
"Who's 'they' anymore? Hǔtān's probably dead. Half the crew is in the hospital. The organization is falling apart."
"So we just... walk away?"
"Yeah. We walk away. Start over. Pretend this never happened."
They sat in silence, staring at the money, each of them wondering if escape was really possible or if they were just kidding themselves.
Měi Nán
Měi Nán sat in his apartment, not the villa, but his actual apartment that he still paid 15,000 yuan per month for, calling Tòumíng's phone for the seventh time.
It went straight to voicemail. Again.
"Hey, it's me. Again. I know you're probably busy but... can you call me back? I'm starting to worry. You said you were visiting a friend but you've been gone for like eighteen hours and you're not answering and..."
He paused, staring at his phone.
"Just... call me when you can. Okay? I want to make sure you're not doing something stupid. Or dangerous. Or both. Because you have a habit of doing both."
He hung up and set the phone on his coffee table, staring at it like willing it to ring would make it happen.
"He's fine," he told himself out loud. "He's survived worse. He's probably just busy. Or his phone died. Or..."
But the worry gnawed at him anyway.
He picked up the phone and started typing a text: If you're not back by tomorrow I'm calling the police
He stared at it. Deleted it. Typed: Please be safe
Deleted that too.
Finally settled on: Text me when you can
Sent it.
Then sat back and waited, trying to convince himself that everything was fine.