The sun was a relentless, white-hot disc in a cloudless sky, baking the asphalt of the "Shiny Bucket" Car Wash.
The air was a thick, humid soup of synthetic lemon wax, hot rubber, and the constant, aggressive hiss-thump of high-pressure water jets.
Joey tilted her head, her eyes scanning his face with a sudden, quiet curiosity that made the air between them feel still despite the roar of the water jets.
"You know, if we're going to be 'coworkers,' I should probably know what to call you," she said, her voice dropping the coach-like bravado. "Besides 'Pretty Boy,' I mean."
The man stood paralyzed for a heartbeat, the weight of his real name—Lu Xingcheng—feeling heavy and dangerous on his tongue, a title that carried the power of life and death.
He looked at her mismatched sneakers and the smudge of soap on her cheek, and for the first time, the "Shadow Emperor" took a backseat.
"...Cheng," he finally muttered, the syllable sounding strange and naked in the open air. "Just Cheng."
A bright, lopsided smile broke across Joey's face, cutting through the heat of the afternoon. "Well, Cheng..." she said softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm Joey." She gave his navy "BOB" shirt a playful pat, the tension breaking as she stepped back.
Lu Xingcheng stood in the center of Bay 4, and if looks could kill, the entire city block would be a graveyard.
He was wearing a faded, three-sizes-too-large navy uniform shirt with "BOB" embroidered in jagged red thread over his heart.
Sweat matted his dark hair to his forehead, and he held a dripping, oversized yellow sponge in his hand like he was deciding whether to wash a car or garrote a man with it.
Tweet!
A sharp plastic whistle pierced the air.
"Shoulders back, Bob!" Joey shouted from the sidelines, blowing the whistle again. "You're washing a Toyota, not guarding a tomb!"
Joey stood by a plastic bucket, clutching a clipboard like a high-stakes coach. Even in the 38°C heat, she looked radiant in her "Shiny Bucket" visor and apron.
She was the only person in the world who could look at a Mafia King and see a lazy intern.
"It's simple, Cheng," Joey said, stepping closer to wipe a stray suds-bubble off his nose. "Soap on, water off. And for the love of everything holy—stop glaring at the customers like you're planning their funerals. Smile!"
"I do not 'smile' at men who drive mid-range sedans with sticky cup holders, Peppercorn," Xingcheng's voice was a low, vibrating engine. "It is beneath the dignity of… of an actor of my caliber."
Joey let out a mischievous grin and pinched his cheek. "You do if you want that ten-dollar tip! Think of it as 'method acting.' I'll be at the café across the street getting us some iced tea. Don't get fired in the first hour, or we're eating plain rice for a week!"
She skipped away, dodging a spray of water. Xingcheng watched her go, his expression softening for exactly one second before the "Shadow" returned to his eyes.
Suddenly, a sleek, obsidian-black limousine with deep tinted windows purred into his bay. The engine hummed with the expensive precision of a predator.
The back window glided down with a whisper.
Lao K leaned out, his face pale as he stared at the soapy, humid bay in absolute horror. He saw his Emperor—the man who controlled the city's trade—holding a bucket of suds.
"Boss…" Lao K whispered, his voice trembling. "What in the name of the ancestors are you doing with that bucket? The Syndicate council is meeting in twenty minutes. They're calling your disappearance a 'weakness.' The Ghost Clan is moving on the north warehouse."
Xingcheng didn't blink. He slowly walked to the side of the limo.
SPLAT.
He slammed the heavy, wet sponge onto the pristine windshield, dragging a streak of grey soap across the glass.
"Tell the Syndicate I'm busy 'expanding my territory,'" Xingcheng said, his voice cold as a winter grave. "This bay is my fortress for the week. And Lao K?"
"Yes, Boss?"
Xingcheng pointed a dripping, sudsy finger at the fender. "There is a streak on the left side. It's an insult to my… professional standards. Fix it. Now."
The most feared General of the Lu Syndicate slowly stepped out of the limo. Sweating through his three-piece suit, Lao K took a microfiber cloth from a nearby rack and began to buff the fender, his hands shaking while Xingcheng watched with cold satisfaction.
"HEY! BOB!" a high-pitched scream erupted from the entrance.
A middle-aged man in a sweat-stained polo shirt stomped toward Xingcheng, waving a greasy receipt.
"I've been waiting fifteen minutes! Are you paid to stare at the fancy cars or wash mine? Move it, you lazy loser! Do you even know how to use a hose?"
The air around Xingcheng seemed to drop ten degrees. Lao K froze, his hand still on the car fender, knowing exactly what was about to happen. He had seen men killed for much less than being called a "lazy loser."
Xingcheng slowly, methodically wrapped a heavy, wet microfiber cloth around his right fist. He twisted it tight, the veins in his forearm bulging like snakes.
"You want to know…" Xingcheng's voice was a low, terrifying purr as he stepped toward the man, "what I can do with a hose?"
Across the street, Joey was walking back with two cups of tea, laughing at a meme on her phone. She was completely unaware that "Bob" was seconds away from committing a homicide in a "Save the Bees" district.