The children huddled together in the back, their small bodies wrapped in blankets Kai had grabbed from a supply bag. Their faces were pale, eyes wide and restless.

  Jun sat near the window, knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around his legs. He did not look away from the passing lights, as if the blur of signs and traffic was the only thing holding him still.

  Lian kept her eyes forward, both hands firm on the wheel. Her face showed nothing, but her knuckles were pale against the leather. Kai sat in the passenger seat, his laptop balanced on his knees, the glow casting faint lines across his face. He typed quickly, scanning maps, searching for open routes.

  “We are going to get exposed,” he murmured. “There are police stationed on the main streets, they are conducting checkpoints near the ferries.”

  Lian’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to the road. “Options?”

  Kai exhaled slowly. “An old workshop in Yau Ma Tei. We used it once a few years ago. It’s underground but it should be secure enough.”

  She nodded once.

  The van veered off the main road, cutting through side streets where the light was dimmer and the noise thinned to murmurs. They passed shuttered storefronts, graffiti-smeared walls, cats darting across alleys.

  Finally, Lian pulled into a narrow lot behind a crumbling building. She killed the engine.

  Kai turned in his seat, his voice low. “Everyone out. Stay close.”

  The children moved slowly, blinking against the night air. Jun slid from the van last, his small hand gripping the doorframe before he stepped down.

  The back entrance to the workshop was hidden beneath a sagging awning. Lian pushed the door open, the hinges groaning, the smell of rust and dust spilling out.

  Inside, the space was wide, low-ceilinged, concrete walls lined with shelves stacked with rusting tools and broken equipment. A single bulb swung from a cord overhead, its light dim but steady.

  Kai led the children inside, guiding them toward the far corner where old mattresses were piled. He spread them out quickly, laying blankets across them.

  “Sit here,” he said softly.

  The children obeyed, curling close together, their small frames trembling from exhaustion. Jun sat apart, his back against the wall, arms still wrapped around his legs. His eyes never left Lian and Kai.

  Lian moved to the sink in the corner, turning the tap. Water gurgled, rusty at first, then clearer. She filled a pot and set it on a portable stove. Soon, the faint smell of boiling rice filled the air, mixing with the tang of metal and dust.

  The children’s eyes followed the pot as if hypnotized. Their stomachs growled.

  Kai crouched in front of them, voice gentle. “There will be food soon. Don’t worry y’all are safe”

  One girl, her hair cut unevenly, whispered. “Really safe?”

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  Kai held her gaze. “Yes. Here, safe.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she nodded, leaning into the boy beside her.

  When the rice was done, Lian portioned it carefully into bowls, handing each child a spoon. They ate in silence, fast and clumsy, rice spilling down their shirts. Jun ate slower this time, though his eyes stayed sharp, flicking toward the siblings every few moments.

  Afterward, Kai spread out a notebook on the table. He began jotting names, ages, any fragments of information the children could offer. Some remembered where they were taken, others could not speak at all. Most gave only short answers.

  Jun stayed silent.

  Finally, Lian crouched in front of him. Her voice was steady, not unkind. “Jun. Tell us what you know.”

  The boy’s fingers tightened around his knees. His eyes flicked from her to Kai, then back. He hesitated for a long moment before whispering. “I don’t know much.”

  “Anything,” she pressed.

  He drew a breath, shaky. “They took me from the street and promised me work. But it was lies. They locked us in a room and sometimes they moved kids and we will never see them again.”

  His voice cracked slightly on the last word. He looked down, his shoulders small, hunched.

  Lian said nothing for a moment. Then she reached out, her hand light on his arm. “You are out now.”

  Jun nodded, but his eyes stayed shadowed.

  Later, when the children finally drifted to sleep on the mattresses.

  Kai sat at the table, laptop open, his fingers moving quickly. Lian leaned over his shoulder, her face unreadable.

  “They’ll look for us,” Kai said quietly. “Not just the children. Us.”

  Lian’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

  Behind them, Jun still sat awake, his back against the wall. His gaze stayed fixed on the siblings, his small body taut, as if he didn’t quite believe this safety would hold.

  The next morning came gray, light seeping through the cracks in the boarded windows. The city outside stirred awake, its noise muffled but steady.

  Lian was already moving, sharpening blades, cleaning rifles stripped from the red gate. Kai brewed tea over the small stove, the steam curling in the cold air.

  The children woke slowly, their eyes heavy, their stomachs growling again. Rice and tea filled them.

  Jun ate quietly, but when he finished, he looked at Kai. “What now?”

  Kai set his cup down, studying him. “Now we keep you safe. All of you.”

  Jun shook his head. “They will come.”

  Lian’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp but calm. “Then we stop them.”

  The boy looked away, but his jaw tightened.

  By afternoon, the workshop felt smaller, the air heavy with too many bodies, too much waiting. The children sat in corners, some playing with scraps of wood, others staring blankly.

  Lian and Kai worked at the table, their maps and notebooks spread wide.

  Every so often, one of the children would glance toward them, eyes wide with unspoken questions.

  Kai noticed Jun watching closer than the rest. The boy’s gaze tracked every move, every note, as if memorizing.

  Finally, Kai closed the laptop and crouched beside him. “Why do you watch?”

  Jun didn’t flinch. “Because you fight them.”

  Kai’s voice stayed gentle. “Do you want to fight too?”

  Jun hesitated, then nodded once.

  “You are young,” Kai said. “Too young.”

  Jun’s face hardened slightly. “Not too young to be taken.”

  The words hung heavy in the air. Lian looked over, her knife pausing in her hand.

  Kai sighed, rubbing his temple. “We’ll talk later.”

  Evening fell. The city outside roared with life again, lights glowing through the cracks in the boards.

  Lian cooked noodles this time, the scent filling the space. The children ate hungrily, some slurping, some too tired to finish.

  Afterward, when the children settled again, Lian and Kai sat across from each other at the table.

  Kai spoke first. “We cannot stay here long.”

  Lian nodded. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”