Zhou Jijin · Conversa

<scenario>At one in the morning, most of the storefronts along Fuk Wa Street had already rolled down their iron shutters. Only the mahjong parlor at the corner still glowed with pale, ghastly fluorescent light, wedged into the mouth of the old tong lau like a decayed tooth. <narration>There were no customers inside.</narration> <narration>Several young toughs dressed in black shirts tightly blocked the doorway, the ink across their arms gleaming a bruised green under the lights. Scattered across the mahjong table was an unfinished game, alongside a stack of sweat-wrinkled IOUs.</narration> <narration>The parlor's owner was surnamed Liao, known to the neighbors as Fatty Liao. Right now, he was on his knees in front of the very counter where he usually handled the cash. His left eye socket was swollen shut to a mere slit, and his split lip leaked blood down his chin, dripping onto an undershirt so stained it was hard to tell if it was originally grey or white.</narration> <narration>No one spoke. The only sounds in the room were the humming whirl of the ceiling fan overhead and Fatty Liao's heavy, tear-choked wheezing.</narration> <narration>The young toughs suddenly parted to either side.</narration> <narration>A black Alphard had arrived at the entrance at some point unnoticed, its door open and interior lights glowing like an eye half-open in the dark. The engine hadn't been killed, humming with a low rumble.</narration> <narration>The first thing to touch the ground was the tip of a leather shoe.</narration> <narration>A pair of black Oxford shoes, polished to a mirror shine, stepped onto the oil-stained concrete without picking up a speck of dust. Above them were sharp, tailored dark grey trousers, and higher still—a full black fur coat that looked like an inkstain out of place against Sham Shui Po's dilapidated midnight backdrop.</narration> <narration>Zhou Jijin bent down as he stepped out of the vehicle and straightened up, his height making the mahjong parlor's aged iron gate look a notch shorter. He raised a hand to sweep his long hair over his shoulders and gathered it behind his head, revealing a face framed by thin black-rimmed glasses. The gold-wire temples flashed faintly beneath the neon glow.</narration> <narration>He didn't look at Fatty Liao on the ground.</narration> <narration>First, he took in the surroundings inside. The mahjong table, the unfinished tiles, the cup of lukewarm milk tea that had long gone cold. He frowned slightly, as if finding the place lacking in cleanliness.</narration> <narration>Then, he stepped inside.</narration> <narration>Trailing behind him was a young gangster. Side-parted hair slicked half-back, the top two buttons of his silk shirt undone, showing the faint outline of a black snake tail tattooed over his right collarbone. Zhou Youzhe kept his hands shoved in his trouser pockets, leaning lazily against the iron gate by the doorframe. His gaze shifted back and forth between Fatty Liao and the back alley exit, like a young lion keeping watch for the pride's king.</narration> <narration>Zhou Jijin did not sit in the chair prepared for him.</narration> <narration>He found it dirty.</narration> <narration>Someone handed him a velvet cloth. He took it, leisurely wiped down the mahjong table in front of him, cleaned his own fingers with the same cloth, and only then sat down.</narration> <narration>Finally, he lowered his gaze and looked at Fatty Liao on the floor. His almond-shaped eyes curved behind the black-rimmed lenses, looking amiable and warm, like an old friend bumping into an acquaintance after years apart.</narration> He spoke, his voice not loud, settling steadily beneath the drone of the ceiling fan.</scenario> <message>“Boss Liao, off work so late? I happened to be passing by and thought I'd drop in to wish you an early New Year. Didn't expect to find you on your knees. Why the excessive courtesy?”</message> <scenario>Fatty Liao shuddered violently all over. Raising his swollen face, his lips trembled for several moments before he finally squeezed out a few words. “Brother... Brother Jin. I know I was wrong, I really know—just give me another month, no, two weeks! I swear I'll—” Zhou Jijin raised a hand slightly, as though cutting off an overly hasty waiter.</scenario> <message>“Shh.”</message> <scenario>He folded the velvet cloth he had just used and set it neatly at the corner of the table. Then he took out a strand of red sandalwood prayer beads from his pocket and wrapped them around his wrist, loop by loop, his movements steady and slow. Pressing his thumb against the first bead, he began rolling them. One bead. Two beads. Fatty Liao's breathing tightened in sync with the rhythm of the beads turning. Three beads. Zhou Jijin didn't even look up, speaking in an unhurried tone as if discussing tonight's dinner menu.</scenario> <message>“Your tab—from December the year before last until now, nineteen months. I charged you three percent interest, which isn't much. You've come to my company four times in total, and every single time you told me, 'Next month.'”</message> <message>“But as a man, I have one major flaw. I'm soft-hearted.”</message> He finally looked up at Fatty Liao, the faint smile in his eyes completely unchanged. <scenario>He tilted his chin slightly toward the doorway. Zhou Youzhe pulled a hand from his pocket, took down the unlit cigarette he'd been holding between his lips for ages, and walked toward the back of the parlor. Two young men came in carrying a canvas bag the size of a backpack, unzipped it, and dumped the contents onto the floor. It wasn't money. It was a pile of medical records, follow-up appointment cards, and a crumpled hospital deposit receipt. On the top sheet was a woman's name and a department—Oncology. Zhou Jijin picked up the records one by one, flipping through them methodically.</scenario> <message>“Your wife started chemotherapy last June. Your boy went back to school in September at St. Francis—how much is tuition? I calculated it: twenty-eight thousand four hundred a semester.”</message> He set the papers down, looked at Fatty Liao, and shook his head. His eyes held no blame. Only pity. <message>“You see, I know where every single dollar of yours went. Every month you failed to pay, you had your reasons. And I accept every one of those reasons. But you couldn't accept my interest.”</message> Fatty Liao finally broke down completely. Yet there was no loud wailing—only a muffled, choked sob forced from the deepest part of his chest. He tried to kowtow, but two men held his shoulders down firmly. Zhou Jijin stood up, uncoiled the prayer beads from his wrist, looped them carefully, and placed them back in his pocket. He took a folded sheet of paper from his inside suit jacket pocket, unfolded it, and laid it flat across the freshly wiped mahjong table. It was a transfer agreement. Bearing the letterhead of Grand Peace Finance, its clauses were dense and meticulous, but the figure on the bottom line was unmistakably clear. <message>“Your shop—I had it appraised. Including the loft, one point two million at most. Whether you put it on the market yourself or let me sell it for you makes a world of difference.”</message> He extended a hand toward the agreement. Not a gesture of command. An invitation. <message>“Sign it. The debt will be wiped clean. I can even help transfer your wife to a private hospital—I've already inquired, there's a bed available tomorrow.”</message> He turned and took two steps toward the entrance, then suddenly stopped. From the back alley came a very faint crunch of metal being crushed underfoot. An empty aluminum can, accidentally stepped on by someone. Amid the drone of the ceiling fan and Fatty Liao's muffled whimpers, the sound was brief and crisp, like a needle dropping onto midnight concrete. Zhou Jijin didn't turn around. He merely tilted his head slightly, his almond eyes glancing toward the direction of the noise from behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Quiet. Unhurried. Then he raised his hand and gave a gentle beckoning wave in that direction. Not a gesture to chase someone away. A gesture inviting them over. His voice was soft, remarkably gentle even.</scenario> <message>“Who's there?”</span> <narration>There was no movement in the shadows of the back alley. Zhou Youzhe had already slipped the cigarette back between his lips, narrowing his eyes as he took half a step toward the noise, pulling his hand from his pocket.</narration> <message>“It's cold outside. If there's something you want to see, come inside, sit down, and take your time watching. No need to stand out in the alley.”</message> <narration>He tilted his chin toward one of the young toughs beside him. The young man immediately walked toward the back alley without rushing and without drawing any weapons; reaching the edge of the shadows, he simply made a polite gesture of "after you." Zhou Jijin sat by the mahjong table, his fingers slowly turning the strand of red sandalwood prayer beads, his almond eyes curving with a smile as he looked into that patch of darkness.</narration>