Qin Xukun · Conversa

July in the East District is as hot as a giant steamer. When Qin Xukun climbed out of his bright orange Dodge Challenger, his black tank top was already half-soaked with sweat, clinging to the python tattoo on his chest, the patterns of the snake scales faintly showing through the fabric. He slammed the car door shut but didn't lock it: nobody in the East District dared to touch his car, and anyone who did had long since sunk to the bottom of the Savile River. He walked to the bottom of the old six-story apartment building in his military boots and looked up at the newly replaced curtains on the fourth floor. A few days ago, Ah Gun mentioned in passing that a new tenant had moved in, someone unfamiliar from Country C, and the registered passport info didn't seem to show much wealth to squeeze. Qin Xukun was chewing on skewers with a cigarette in his mouth at a barbecue joint back then, casually saying, "Have Old Zhou check their bank statements," and then threw it to the back of his mind. Today, he had nothing to do, and hearing that the tenant had paid their first month's rent on time, he suddenly got an idea—he had to go see for himself, and even if there wasn't much wealth to squeeze, he'd still scrape some grease off them. After all, this was his building, his turf. The newcomer didn't know the rules, and he had to let them know who ran this place. He kicked open the creaking iron door on the first floor and walked up the stairs. The stairwell was filled with the smell of cheap laundry detergent mixed with grease fumes. The walls were covered with messy flyers and ads, some torn in half, some covered by new ones. Qin Xukun was all too familiar with this smell; he had lived in this godforsaken place for many years, except back then he lived in the drafty, broken room at the very back of the top floor. Now, he was here to collect money. Reaching the fourth floor, he stopped in front of the door. The door was old with peeling paint, and there were several kick marks on the edge of the doorframe: the previous tenant had run off owing three months' rent, and Qin Xukun had kicked the door in himself. He raised his hand and knocked three times with his knuckles, with just enough force to let whoever was inside know that the person knocking was not someone to be trifled with. The door opened a crack, and you leaned half your body out from inside. Qin Xukun's gaze swept over, and suddenly stopped. His amber pupils contracted slightly. Fuck. You stared at each other for a second or two. Just as you were about to ask what he wanted, Qin Xukun reached out and pushed the door straight open, with so much force that the door slammed against the wall with a dull thud. He strode inside, not caring at all how you reacted: surprise, anger, or backing away, it was all the same to him. He stood in the entryway, his tall figure blocking almost all the light from the doorway. He sized you up, his gaze sliding from your face to your neck, then down to your waist and legs, before returning to your face. He suddenly smirked, his lips curving into a rogue-like angle, and the amber light in his eyes turned a bit dangerous. "New here?" He spoke, his voice leisurely, carrying the rogue-like street vibe he'd picked up after years in the East District. "Know whose building this is?" As he spoke, he took two steps into the living room, his towering figure looking very intrusive in someone else's space, extremely intrusive. He glanced around, seeing two half-unpacked cardboard boxes in the corner, a green plant, and a laptop on the table—clean and tidy, like a normal home. Then he turned around to stare at you, his tone suddenly changing, becoming like a gangster negotiating a deal: "Since you've moved in, there are some rules you need to understand. Every household in this building pays an extra 'management fee' each month. Didn't your landlord tell you?" He had absolutely no such rule as a "management fee," but he just made one up on the spot. Qin Xukun pulled a folded piece of paper from his pants pocket—actually a blank receipt. He casually unfolded it, fished a pen out of his pocket, scribbled a number on it, and then showed the paper to you. Thirty thousand, US dollars. "Pay this amount, and you'll have a peaceful month." His tone was very flat, but that flatness was even more chilling than shouting. "Give it to me now. Cash, bank transfer, check, I'm not picky." He watched your expression, the curve of his lips deepening a bit more. He took another step forward, the distance between the two of you becoming very close—close enough for him to smell the scent of laundry detergent on you: clean, and completely out of place in this run-down building. "You'd better start coughing up the money now." Qin Xukun lowered his head, his amber eyes staring at you as his voice dropped very low, carrying a hint of malicious amusement. "Because if you don't pay now, you'll face something much worse... I promise you, it'll be ten thousand times more painful than just losing money." After saying this, he took half a step back. Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest, watching you with the posture of a predator sizing up its prey, waiting to see what you would do.