The van rolled to a stop at the edge of Sham Shui Po.

  The district lay stretched before them, tight blocks of aging apartments pressed together like weathered teeth. Neon signs glowed from shopfronts below, most of them still open despite the late hour. The air carried the heavy scent of frying oil, sweat, and damp concrete.

  Jun sat in the back, his knees pulled up to his chest. He peered out the window, eyes scanning the street. His finger lifted, pointing toward the cluster of buildings ahead.

  “There,” he whispered.

  Lian followed his gaze. At the far end of the block, squeezed between two grocery shops, was a narrow alley. Beyond the alley rose a wall of faded brick topped with rusted metal spikes. A single gate stood at its center, painted red but chipped and peeling, the iron beneath showing through in streaks of brown.

  Kai leaned forward in his seat, studying it. “Looks like it’s been patched more than once.”

  “Locked?” Lian asked.

  Jun nodded. “Always locked.”

  They left the van a block away, pulling their hoods low as they melted into the night crowd. Street vendors shouted prices over steaming pots, their voices competing with the clatter of mahjong tiles from open windows above. Music thumped from a basement bar, a low bass that rattled the ground underfoot.

  Jun walked close beside Kai, his small hand gripping the edge of his jacket. His eyes never left the red gate, even as they wove through the press of bodies.

  When they reached the mouth of the alley, the noise of the street dulled, replaced by dripping water and the faint scurrying of rats along the walls. The red gate loomed at the far end, taller now, more imposing.

  Lian crouched beside the wall, fingertips tracing the rust. She leaned her ear close, listening. Faint voices drifted from inside—low, muffled, but present.

  “Busy,” she murmured.

  Kai set his backpack down, pulling out a small black case. He flicked it open, revealing tools neatly arranged inside. Lock picks glinted under the dim alley light.

  “Two minutes,” he said.

  Jun stood back, pressed against the wall. His eyes darted toward the street as if expecting shadows to follow them.

  Lian kept watch while Kai worked. The faint scrape of metal against tumblers filled the silence. Her grip tightened on the knife hidden in her sleeve, every muscle ready to spring.

  A soft click broke the tension. The lock gave way, swinging slightly.

  Kai glanced up. “Open.”

  Lian pushed the gate slowly, the hinges groaning in protest. The courtyard beyond stretched wide, lined with cracked concrete and overgrown weeds. A single two-story building stood at its center, lights glowing faintly behind drawn curtains.

  They slipped inside, closing the gate behind them. Jun hesitated, his breath quick, before following close.

  The courtyard smelled of damp earth and rot. Piles of broken furniture leaned against the walls, and a half-collapsed shed slumped in the corner.

  Lian crouched low, scanning the windows. Shadows moved inside, figures crossing now and then, their outlines distorted by the curtains.

  Kai touched her shoulder. “Basement first. There’s less eyes there.”

  They crept along the side of the building, hugging the wall. At the back, a set of steps led down to a narrow door half hidden by vines. Rust streaked the handle.

  Lian tested it gently. Locked.

  Kai knelt again, tools flashing quickly. Another click, and the door swung open. The air that spilled out was heavy, damp, carrying a sour stench of mildew and old chemicals.

  Jun hesitated at the threshold. Lian met his eyes, her voice steady. “Stay close. No noise.”

  They moved down into the dark. The basement was lined with crates, most stacked carelessly, some pried open to reveal bundles wrapped in plastic.

  Kai pried open one crate with his knife. Inside were passports, dozens of them, bound together with rubber bands. Different faces, different names, but all blank where the personal details should be.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Fake identities,” he muttered.

  Another crate revealed stacks of small vials, each sealed and labeled with strings of numbers. Jun stared at them, his face pale, but said nothing.

  Before they could check further, footsteps echoed above—heavy, too many to count. Voices carried through the floorboards, sharper now, followed by the scrape of chairs and clatter of bottles.

  Lian motioned sharply. They moved deeper into the basement, slipping behind a row of shelves.

  A door above opened with a creak. Boots descended the stairs.

  One man. His figure appeared in the glow, broad shoulders, a pistol hanging loose in his hand. He muttered to himself, scratching his chin as he stepped onto the concrete floor.

  Lian’s knife slid into her palm. She moved fast, crossing the space in silence. One hand clamped over his mouth, the other driving the blade into his throat. His body jerked once, then went limp. She lowered him slowly, blood pooling across the floor.

  Jun’s small eyes were wide, but he didn’t cry out. His lips pressed tight, his breathing sharp but controlled.

  Kai dragged the body behind the crates, wiping the floor with an old cloth to mask the blood. He leaned close to Lian. “We should check upstairs. There seems to be alot of movement.”

  She nodded.

  They slipped back to the stairs, each step slow, careful. The door at the top opened into a narrow hallway lined with peeling wallpaper. The sound of voices was louder here, coming from a larger room ahead.

  Lian edged forward, crouching low. She peeked through a crack in the doorway.

  Inside, half a dozen men sat around a table cluttered with bottles, cards, and half-eaten food. Their laughter was coarse, their voices overlapping in a mess of dialects. Against the far wall, two more men leaned near a locked door, rifles resting in their hands.

  Her jaw tightened. She counted eight.

  Kai’s eyes flicked to hers, then to Jun. The boy stared at the locked door, his expression sharpening, almost as if he recognized it.

  “Not here,” Kai whispered. “Too many.”

  Lian hesitated, then pulled back, retreating into the hallway. They moved down another corridor, passing closed doors. From behind one came the faint sound of a cough, then a muffled cry.

  She froze. Her eyes met Kai’s. He nodded once.

  Lian turned the handle slowly. The door opened into a cramped room lit by a single bare bulb. Three children huddled on a mat, their faces pale, eyes wide. They shrank back as the door opened.

  Jun stepped forward instinctively. “It’s okay,” he whispered in a rush. “It’s okay.”

  The children clung to each other, silent but trembling.

  Kai checked the hallway. Voices still rose from the main room, laughter spilling out. No one had noticed.

  “We can’t take them all now,” he muttered.

  “We can’t leave them either,” Lian said sharply.

  Jun crouched in front of the children, his voice soft but insistent. “Come quietly.”

  Their small hands reached for his. One by one, they stood, their thin legs shaking.

  Lian guided them into the hall. Each step felt louder than the last. Sweat slicked her palms, the air heavy with tension.

  They had almost reached the back stairwell when the laughter in the main room stopped. A chair scraped against the floor.

  “Go,” Lian hissed.

  They broke into motion, rushing down the stairs. Behind them, the sound of boots thundered against wood, voices shouting.

  The basement door slammed open. Men spilled down after them.

  Gunfire erupted, deafening in the small space. Bullets tore into crates, shattering wood, glass spraying across the floor.

  Lian shoved the children behind a shelf, knife flashing as she lunged at the first man through the doorway. Blood sprayed as he fell, his weapon clattering away.

  Kai swung a metal rod, smashing it against another man’s head. He dropped instantly, skull splitting against the concrete.

  But more poured in, their rifles spitting fire.

  Jun screamed, shielding the smaller children.

  Kai grabbed one of the rifles from the ground, returning fire in sharp bursts. Two men dropped, the rest ducking for cover behind crates.

  The air filled with smoke and the acrid sting of gunpowder.

  Lian dragged Jun and the children toward the back of the basement. A small window, half-broken, lay high on the wall. She shoved one child upward. “Climb out.”

  Kai fired again, covering them. Bullets sparked against the floor near his feet. He rolled, firing upward, dropping another man.

  The children scrambled through the window one by one, Jun pushing them from behind. His thin arms strained, but he didn’t stop.

  Lian lifted him last, shoving him toward the gap. He wriggled through, eyes wide with fear.

  “Go!” she shouted.

  He vanished into the night.

  Kai fired his last rounds, then threw the rifle aside. He grabbed another from a fallen man, barely pausing before pulling the trigger again.

  Bodies littered the basement now, blood soaking the floor. The last of the gunmen retreated, shouting for reinforcements.

  Lian and Kai didn’t wait. They scrambled up the stairs, through the back hall, out into the courtyard.

  The night air hit like a wave. Jun and the children huddled by the wall, eyes wide with terror.

  “Move,” Lian barked.

  They ran for the gate. Kai shoved it open, the rusted hinges screaming. They spilled into the alley, the city lights flaring around them.

  Behind, more voices shouted. Boots slammed against concrete.

  But the crowd swallowed them as they pushed into the main street. They blended into the noise, the children clinging to their arms, Jun pressed tight between them.

  Only when they reached the van again, breath ragged, did they pause.

  The children climbed in quickly as silent tears streaked their faces. Jun sat among them, his small body trembling.

  They drove into the night, the red gate fading behind them, swallowed by the city.