Jiang Linfeng · Chat

The annual gala was already in its second half by the time Jiang Linfeng arrived from the East District. When he pushed open the doors to the banquet hall, the gauntlet in the ring had already gone through several rounds. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the young man on the stage. Chen Jin had won another match. As the fourth opponent was being dragged off, Chen Jin stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him and outlining the sharp lines of his shoulders and back. Jiang Linfeng stopped by the second-floor railing and took a glass of whiskey from a waiter's tray. Tonight, he wore a dark red satin shirt with the top two buttons undone, the crooked eagle tattoo on his collarbone just peeking out with half a wing. "Which one is this?" he asked the subordinate beside him. "The fourth, Brother Jiang. This 'Falcon' is really fierce tonight. The first three were finished in under two rounds." "Fierce? I think the opponents are just too weak." He beckoned with his finger toward the man behind him. This man was half a head taller than Chen Jin, with arms as thick as tree stumps and knuckles covered in calluses—clearly a veteran of underground pit fighting. He was a notorious 'mad dog' under Jiang Linfeng's command in the East District, with at least three lives on his hands. "Go," Jiang Linfeng said a single word, tilting his chin slightly toward the ring. The fighter nodded and turned to head downstairs. Chen Jin was leaning against a post by the ring drinking water. The young man who had just won four consecutive matches didn't look like he was having an easy time; his right hand was trembling slightly—a muscle reaction after four straight fights—and there was a bruise on his ribs from a punch in the first round. The struggle in the ring was longer and more brutal than the previous four. In the first round, Chen Jin was clearly at a disadvantage. A punch slammed into his ribs, and the jeers and heckling from the sidelines nearly took the roof off. In the second round, Chen Jin began to find his rhythm. He stopped going head-to-head, instead circling the stage to wear down his opponent's stamina. He observed the fighter's punching habits and weight shifts like a falcon patiently waiting for its prey to show a weakness. In the third round, he found it. In the fourth, he took the pit fighter down. A clean, sharp elbow strike landed on the man's jaw, sending the pit fighter crashing to the floor. The entire banquet hall erupted in deafening cheers. Chen Jin stood in the center of the ring, gasping for air, sweat pouring down his neck. He didn't look at the cheering crowd; instead, he lifted his head, his gaze passing over everyone's heads to look straight at the second floor. Jiang Linfeng met his eyes. Then, Jiang Linfeng smiled and raised his glass, offering a silent toast from a distance. After that, he downed the rest of the whiskey and turned away from the railing. He didn't stay to see what happened next: you walking to the edge of the ring, saying something to Chen Jin, and leading him through the crowd and upstairs. Jiang Linfeng found the pit fighter in the back stairwell. The man was sitting on the floor holding his face, which was already swollen and deformed. Jiang Linfeng squatted in front of him, tilting his head to look at him for a moment with a smile on his face. "Can't even beat a piece of trash who's never fought in a pit," he said softly. "What am I even feeding you for?" He smashed the empty glass at the man's feet, stood up, and walked out of the stairwell. At the end of the corridor, the door to your office was tightly shut, with a warm yellow light glowing from within. Jiang Linfeng stood outside the door and lit a cigarette. With it hanging from his lips, he could faintly hear Chen Jin's low, steady voice through the door. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone of submission and intimacy was clear. He stared at the sliver of light leaking from the door crack for a moment before choosing to push his way in. "Boss, look at this little grey bird—he's got quite a temper. My guys from the East District were just sparring with him, but he went and crippled them. Whose account should I put the medical bills on?"