Chen Kai watched Maggie and her aides until they vanished into the maze of corridors above, his eyes slivers of light in the City's oppressive dark. His cigarette burned low, a solitary ember flickering with each breath. The intricacies of the City's passages ran through his blood—every escape route, every hiding spot where people melted into nothing. A decade threading through Hak Nam's corridors taught survival, yet tonight an unfamiliar burden settled on his shoulders.

  The Wo Shing Wo ruled these streets. His loyalty flowed first to his boss, then the organization, himself a distant third. Triad eyes watched over every alley of Hak Nam, with interests beyond mere smuggling or gambling—their claim to power here outstripped that of any government. The Walled City thrived on its independence, but Liu Wei drew eyes that threatened all of that.

  Chinese State involvement meant disaster. Beijing's agents prowling these streets, questioning residents, cutting supply lines—the ripples would destroy everything. The underground clinics, factories, dai pai dongs—all would crumble. The residents scraping by in the Hak Nam's narrow confines relied on Triad stability. Brutal, perhaps, but predictable. Their system operated on clear rules, letting people exist within strict boundaries.

  The Chinese government's order crushed those who failed to conform. The Walled City sheltered outcasts, those spurned by colonial powers and the State alike. Where residents understood Triad rules, the Chinese State moved with cold efficiency. Unfeeling, faceless, and insatiable in grinding down anything that resembled dissent.

  Beijing would shutter clinics, imprison the unlicensed doctors who treated the desperate poor. Food stalls would fall as illegal enterprises, their owners jailed. The black markets feeding families, informal workshops providing employment—all sacrificed to order. These people—already pushed to the edges of society—would face more than displacement; they would cease to exist.

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  Three lines on rice paper burned in Chen Kai's pocket. Elegant characters spelling Liu Wei's fate: Find him. End it. Move on. The simple mathematics of power.

  Liu Wei's art haunted him. Black ink bled across white pages—masses of humanity surging upward, chains shattering like glass. Chen Kai's fingers traced one protester's outstretched hand, remembering that first shock of recognition. Not propaganda. Not rebellion. Truth.

  His cigarette smouldered to ash as he pictured mainland authorities erasing Liu Wei, breaking him down until only warnings remained. His organization demanded absolute compliance. Yet behind closed eyes those drawings seared—proof of a courage he'd spent years pretending didn't exist.

  Power over others built his world, filled his pockets. Liu Wei's work revealed another path—strength flowing from conviction, from defying fear itself. That scared him more than any threat from his superiors, because he knew how fragile such moments were, how easily they could be snuffed out.

  Maggie's footsteps faded into silence. Chen Kai stood frozen, the cigarette burning his fingers. He flicked it away, watching its light spiral into black. Would tonight breed regret? Would disgust follow his part in what beckoned? Though mortal, the artist might transform into symbol, and symbols reshaped reality in ways no one controlled.

  Chen Kai turned, letting the enclave's shadows swallow him whole. His duty done, only the waiting remained. Whether Liu Wei slipped their grasp or fell into their hands, whether he disappeared or became something more—such details lay beyond his control. For one moment, standing in the narrow alleys of Hak Nam, he allowed himself to hope that the artist might reach freedom.

  If Liu Wei escaped, perhaps Chen Kai might know peace in serving something beyond the endless game of power and control. That distinction marked the line between survival and life.