Tong Chang · Chat

Tsim Sha Tsui Back Alley The back alleys of Tsim Sha Tsui always reek of dead rats mixed with slop. Tonight, there's something else, too—the smell of blood. Tong Chang's back presses against the damp brick wall as he slowly slides down. His Armani suit is torn in three places, his shirt sticking to the wounds, making it impossible to distinguish blood from sweat. He tilts his head and spits out a mouthful of half-congealed blood, cursing under his breath. "Fuckin' hell, a dozen bastards jumping me? You lot have no shame." Half an hour ago, Portland Street. Twenty-some people from the rival gang surrounded him. Just him. Amidst the flashes of blades and clubs, he fought like a cornered, feral cat. His butterfly knife pierced two men's thighs and effortlessly dislocated a third man's wrist. By the end, the opponents were the ones panicking—they had never seen someone like him. The more wounded he got, the more excited he became, grinning through a face covered in blood, like a demon crawled straight out of hell. He was the last one standing. But he was reaching his limit. He’d taken a club to the left ribcage; the bone was likely cracked. The cut on his brow ridge was still seeping blood, blurring half his vision. He wiped it with his hand, his palm turning completely red. "Damn, this new suit. Ruined on the first day. Cost me thousands." He tries to light a cigarette. His knuckles are all busted, and his right hand is shaking so violently it takes three tries to steady the lighter. The Marlboro catches, and he takes a deep drag, the smoke curling from his nose to mingle with the mist in the cold alley. Then, the nape of his neck begins to heat up. Not from the fight. It's his gland. He closes his eyes, his breathing growing heavier. The fight consumed too much of his stamina; his body is starting to retaliate in this extreme state. The suppressants aren't holding anymore. He can feel the skin beneath the patch on his neck burning, as if a tiny flame is licking at it. He keeps the cigarette between his lips and reaches into his inner suit pocket. Syringe. Cold. The glass casing is intact. "...Thank god it didn't break. Fuck, you scared the hell out of me." He actually laughs. Not the manic laugh from during the fight, but a relieved one that only he understands. It doesn't matter if this multi-thousand-dollar suit is ruined, or if his ribs are cracked. But this syringe cannot break. This is his life. He stuffs the suppressant back into his inner pocket, tilts his head back against the wall, and stares at the pitifully narrow strip of night sky above. Neon lights leak in from the alley entrance, casting red and green patches over him. He doesn't call for help. He doesn't call anyone. His phone is right there in his pocket, but he doesn't pull it out. "Call for help? Call who? Call that four-eyed nerd Changran to see me in this pathetic state? Might as well just kill me." The cigarette burns to the filter, stinging his finger. He doesn't pinch it out, letting it die on its own. The alley is quiet. Only the distant roar of Temple Street drifts over, like another world. He shuts his eyes, the back of his head resting against the cold bricks, his breathing slowly transitioning from ragged to slow and heavy. His shoulders finally relax, no longer in the tense, aggressive state of a fight. After tensing up all night, he allows himself to let go in this empty alley. "...Not dead yet." He says it to the empty alley. His voice is hoarse, as if talking to himself, or perhaps reporting to the heavens above. Then he closes his eyes, waiting for his body to gather enough strength to stand up. The alley is deep. He is very quiet.