The rain had been falling since dawn.
Hong Kong rain wasn’t gentle. It slapped against the pavement in heavy sheets, bouncing off umbrellas, running down neon signs until the colors bled like wet paint. Drains gurgled, already clogged with plastic wrappers and cigarette butts. The sound filled the streets, a constant rush that drowned out the engines of buses and the chatter of morning commuters.
Kai sat by the window of a cramped café in Sham Shui Po, laptop open, headphones in, the condensation from his iced lemon tea dripping onto a napkin. He didn’t really hear the music playing in his ears. The headphones were more for privacy, a signal to anyone looking that he wasn’t interested in small talk.
On the screen, lines of code shifted as he scrubbed the last remnants of their most recent job. The kill itself was only half the work. The cleanup took just as much time, and sometimes more.
Across the table, Lian ate toast with peanut butter, cutting each bite neatly. She had her hood down, damp hair clinging to her cheeks. The waitress had smiled at her when they walked in, not because she recognized her, but because Lian looked like the kind of customer who tipped even in a place where tipping wasn’t expected.
“You’re too obvious with that thing,” she said suddenly, nodding at the laptop.
Kai glanced up. “Everyone in here has one.”
“Not like that. You look married to it.”
He smirked faintly. “Better than looking married to a knife.”
Her lips curved, just slightly. “Touché.”
Kai minimized his windows and leaned back, stretching. The café was small, crowded with students bent over textbooks, a couple of construction workers wolfing down bowls of macaroni soup, and two old men arguing over horse racing odds. The smell of buttered toast and fried eggs hung thick in the air, mixing with the dampness of rain-soaked clothes.
“You think you can ever stop?” Lian asked suddenly, her eyes on the rain outside.
“Stop what?”
“This.” She gestured loosely between them, then out toward the streets. “Living like this.”
Kai thought for a long moment, fingers drumming against the table. “I don’t know. Can you?”
She didn’t answer. She never did when he turned her questions back on her.
The waitress dropped off another pot of hot water for tea, smiling politely before hurrying away. Lian poured it into her cup, steam rising.
“I could stop,” Kai said finally. “If we wanted to.”
“You’d get bored.”
He laughed softly. “Maybe. But I’d try.”
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Her gaze flicked to him but she said nothing.
After breakfast, the rain hadn’t let up. They pulled on jackets, hoods up, and stepped back into the downpour. The city smelled different in the rain, cleaner somehow, though the gutters still carried the stink of trash and exhaust. Vendors had set up makeshift tarps to protect their stalls. Plastic ponchos fluttered in the wind.
They walked without a destination, blending into the flow of umbrellas.
By noon, they ducked into a video game arcade, partly for shelter, partly because Kai liked the noise. The space was packed with flashing machines, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the artificial scent of air freshener trying to cover it.
Kai gravitated toward the racing games, sliding a coin into the slot and gripping the plastic steering wheel. Lian leaned against the machine beside him, arms crossed, watching as he threw himself into the curves of a digital Tokyo street.
“You’re terrible at this,” she said when his car spun out for the second time.
“Not terrible,” he countered, grinning. “Just unlucky.”
“You’re crashing into walls.”
“Walls moved.”
She shook her head, but there was a ghost of a smile at her lips.
They stayed longer than they needed, Kai wasting coins on games he never quite won, Lian half watching, half scanning the crowd. It was habit for her—always checking, always measuring exits, always on alert. Even here, surrounded by teenagers yelling at machines, she never really let go.
Later, they stopped at a grocery store. Lian picked out fresh vegetables, a packet of fish balls, and a small bag of rice. Kai tossed in instant noodles when she wasn’t looking.
Back in the van, Lian chopped vegetables with the same precision she used on her knives, the blade moving cleanly through carrots and bok choy. The tiny portable stove hissed to life, and soon the smell of broth filled the cramped space.
Kai sat nearby, scrolling through his laptop, though his focus wasn’t really on the screen. He watched her cook, the ease in her hands, the way she tested the broth with a sip before adding soy sauce without measuring.
“You missed your calling,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “Cooking?”
“Chef. You’d have been good at it.”
She snorted softly. “You’d be my only customer.”
“Not true. People would line up.”
“Only if I fed them for free.”
He laughed, leaning back. “Still counts.”
They ate together in the van, bowls warm in their hands, the broth rich and comforting against the sound of rain drumming the roof. For a little while, it almost felt like something normal.
After dinner, Lian pulled out a small cloth and her knife set. She sharpened each blade slowly, the rasp of steel against stone steady and familiar. Kai stretched out on the mattress with his laptop propped against his knees, scrolling through forums and encrypted chatrooms.
By midnight, the rain had eased. The city outside was quiet, streets glistening under streetlights. Kai finally closed his laptop, rubbing at his eyes.
“You should sleep,” Lian said.
“So should you.”
“I will.”
“You always say that,” he teased.
She smirked faintly, setting her knives aside. “And I always mean it.”
He chuckled, closing his eyes. The mattress was thin, the van cramped, but he was used to it. It was home enough.
As Kai drifted off, Lian sat by the window, watching the streets below, her posture still alert. She let him sleep first. That was their unspoken agreement.
And in the quiet hours between night and morning, when the city finally slowed, they kept watch over each other.
