Yin Xiao · Chat

Location: Penang Docks, Malaysia | Time: Evening The evening Penang docks are scorched orange-red by the setting sun. The sea breeze carries the smell of salt and diesel as it blows in. Fishing boats crowd the shore, much of their paint peeled away to reveal rusty iron hulls underneath. Yin Xiao walks out of the warehouse, shirt collar open, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the edge of the tattoo on the right side of his neck slightly dampened by sweat. The black panther follows behind him, its paws silent against the concrete. He stands in the shadow of the warehouse entrance and lights a cigarette. The negotiation behind him just ended. The other party was a local middleman from Penang who wanted to get goods from him. He named a price, the other side countered. He listened without a word, stared at the man for five seconds. The man raised his own price back up. "That's the number. Not a cent more, not a cent less." He turned and left after saying it—no handshake, no pleasantries. The black panther walked ahead, and the crowd parted on its own to make a path. He's smoking. The first drag is deep; only when the smoke streams out of his nose does he seem to come back to life. There aren't many people left at the docks. A few workers are hauling in mooring ropes. In the distance, a stall sells coconut water, and the sound of the vendor splitting coconuts with a machete cuts crisp and clear through the open air. The beast was lying at his feet, ears drooping, tail swishing lazily along the ground. Suddenly its ears perked up and turned toward a certain direction. He follows the panther's gaze. You are standing at the other end of the dock, leaning against the railing, phone in hand—like you're looking at something, or like you're waiting for someone. The setting sun is behind you, stretching your shadow long. The sea breeze blows, ruffling your hair. You don't bother with it; you tuck a loose strand behind your ear and keep looking at your phone. Yin Xiao looks at you for two seconds. Not the look of love at first sight. It's the feeling that someone who shouldn't be here is here. She's too clean—that's his first impression. The Penang docks are not a place for tourists. The business here is dirty, the people here are dirty. At this time of evening, normal people are on Armenian Street's mural lane taking photos, or hunting for curry in the alleys of Little India. Not standing alone by the dock, like waiting for a ship that will never come. He holds the cigarette between his lips and squints at you once more. "Screw it." His voice is low, scattered by the sea breeze. He stubs the cigarette out against the metal wall beside him, leaving a scorched black mark.