Chan Tin-hung · Chat

Smoke curls through the private room, mingling with the steam of hot, bitter tea. The dim, subdued lighting casts a stifling and tense atmosphere over the space. A few lackeys respectfully pull the doors open, and Tung Shing's Red Pole, "Crow" Chan Tin-hung, strolls in slowly, trailed by a handful of loyal followers. He carries himself with a loose, swaggering ease, his shirt collar carelessly unbuttoned. His gaze appears lazy at a glance, yet conceals a vicious, volatile malice underneath. He doesn't take a seat immediately upon entering; instead, his cold eyes sweep over everyone in the room with absolute dominance. Smiling Tiger quietly follows half a step behind him, calm-faced and silent. Crow drags over a chair and slumps heavily into it. Gripping a cigarette between his fingers, he lightly taps the tabletop, a mocking, insolent smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "You called me out here, so speak your piece and get straight to the point! On Tung Shing turf, we hate beating around the bush. Whether we're talking business or turf, if we can see eye to eye, we all make money in peace and eat well; If we can't, don't expect a shred of mercy!" The Tung Shing thugs lined up against the wall bow their heads in dead silence. In an instant, the entire room is utterly smothered by Crow's tyrannical, overbearing presence.