The sound was a melody of avarice, a crisp cascade of metallic whispers that sang of empires fallen and fortunes won. Chink-tink-ting.From a worn leather pouch, drawn tight with a thong, a stream of gold coins spilled onto the black felt pad of a high-precision digital scale. They were not the bland, stamped discs of a modern mint; each bore the intricate, hauntingly beautiful profile of a woman with pointed ears and a serene, alien gaze—the Elven Queen. In the dusty afternoon light filtering through the grimy office blinds, they glowed with a soft, seductive fire.
Brother Dong's eyes, usually sharp and reptilian, glazed over. His breath hitched, just for a second. It wasn't the first time in recent weeks this young man, Michael, had brought him such treasure, but the effect never dulled. The sheer, tangible weight of it, the forbidden history it represented, triggered something primal in him. Here was wealth untethered from banks and governments, pure and anonymous.
A dry, deliberate cough from the depths of the room's sole comfortable armchair shattered the spell. Dong blinked, the shrewd pawnbroker snapping back into place, overlaying the dazzled treasure-hoarder. He carefully arranged his features into an expression of congenial professionalism, a mask of the reasonable businessman.
"Michael, my friend," he said, his voice a practiced blend of warmth and calculation. He tapped the scale's glowing digital readout. "Two thousand and thirty-six grams. The market price… it fluctuates, you know? But for a valued partner like you…" He let the pause hang, watching Michael sip the expensive tieguanyintea Dong had provided, the young man's nonchalance both impressive and irritating. "…Three hundred and ten per gram. A fair price in these uncertain times."
Michael swallowed the tea slowly, savoring it, then gave a slow, almost regal nod. "Three-ten it is," he said, as if granting a favor. "Wire the round number. The scraps, give me cash. My wallet's feeling a bit thin." His tone was casual, but the implication was clear: this was petty cash to him.
A genuine, unforced smile cracked Dong's face. The deal was sweet. He'd have these melted down, the elegant features of the elven queen lost forever in a crucible, and sold for a tidy markup. The profit was clean, silent, and substantial.
"Of course, of course! Always a pleasure doing business with someone who understands value!" Dong chirped, becoming a whirlwind of false solicitude. He refilled Michael's tiny cup with hot water from a singing kettle, the picture of the gracious host. "Ah-Cai!" he bellowed towards the back room, his voice shifting from honey to bark. "The usual! Wire transfer, the rest in cash! Now!"
The transaction was executed with smooth, silent efficiency. Numbers flickered on a screen, a thick envelope of banknotes was produced. With a final, dismissive wave, Michael was gone, the door clicking shut on his retreating back.
Dong didn't move from the window. He watched the young man emerge onto the sun-baked street below, climb into a plain white delivery van, and merge into the sluggish river of traffic. Only when the van was out of sight did he turn. All pretence of amiability vanished, leaving a face of cold, sharp angles.
"Ah-Cai," he said, his voice low and flat. "The book. The real one. I want a tally. Everything from that prickin the last month. How much has he taken? How much have we made?"
The woman emerged from the back room. Ah-Cai was all artifice—hair in a cascade of perfect, honeyed waves, lips painted a violent, glossy red that matched her nails. She moved with a languid, possessive air, having long ago traded any pretense of mere employment for a more intimate, and lucrative, partnership. She finished blotting her lipstick on a tissue before sauntering to a cheap landscape painting on the wall. She slid it aside to reveal a small wall safe, spun the dial, and withdrew a simple, cloth-bound ledger. Her manicured finger traced down columns of neat, inky figures.
After a moment of silent calculation, she let out a low, appreciative whistle. "In just under thirty days… that little bastard has walked out of here with seven point two million." She looked up, her eyes gleaming with a hunger that mirrored Dong's own. "Our cut, after expenses… is knocking on eight hundred thousand."
She moved then, a predator closing in, settling herself on Dong's lap with practiced ease. She looped her arms around his neck, her perfume—something cloying and floral—filling his nostrils. "Darling," she purred, her body shifting against him. "With a month like this… that Bottega Veneta bag I showed you… it's barely over twenty thousand. A little reward. For keeping the books so… tidy."
Dong's hand came up, not to caress her, but to grip her wrist, stilling her movements. His gaze was fixed on the window, on the spot where Michael's van had vanished. "Not yet," he said, the words dropping into the stuffy room like stones.
"What?" The pout was back, the seduction faltering under a wave of petulance.
"The bag can wait," Dong murmured, his mind racing down dark paths. "First, we need to find the hole this little mouse is creeping out of." His voice was soft, almost contemplative, but laced with steel. "Seven hundred grand. In a month. In drips and drabs. That's not a payout. That's a vein. A gold mine on two legs, with no muscle, no backers." He finally looked at her, and his eyes were utterly devoid of warmth. "He's sitting on a mountain of it. I can smell it."
Ah-Cai went very still, the promise of leather and logos momentarily forgotten, replaced by a colder, sharper calculation in her kohl-rimmed eyes.
"My boys…" Dong mused aloud, "…they're good for breaking knees, for making a mess on a doorstep. But for this? For a quiet… relocation… of assets? No. We need a surgeon. Not a butcher. We need someone with a reputation for being… thorough. And discreet."
In the clarifying silence that often followed moments of base gratification, a name surfaced in Dong's mind. A man known in certain shadowy circles not for his volume, but for his precision. A man called 'Little Knife.'
With a sense of grim finality, Dong picked up his phone, scrolling through contacts saved under bland, innocent names. He found the one he wanted: 'Xiao Dao – Hardware Wholesale.'
He took a steadying breath and pressed dial. After a few rings, a voice answered, flat and devoid of inflection. "Dong. It's late."
"Xiao Dao-ge," Dong said, layering hearty, false bonhomie over a core of icy intent. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. Business is well, I trust? Listen, I have a… logistical issue. A delicate retrieval job. The kind that requires a specialist's touch. Are you available for a… consultation?"
…
Blissfully oblivious to the vultures now circling his fortune, Michael was in his element. The physical weight of the cash in his pocket was a comfort; the digital number in his bank account, a promise. The city was his marketplace.
His first stop was the sprawling, chaotic wholesale district, a canyon of concrete stalls overflowing with goods. He moved through the familiar chaos with the ease of a regular, haggling for bulk salt, great drums of cooking oil, sacks of laundry powder that smelled sharply of industrial lemon, and canned goods whose labels were a cheerful, garish blur. This was procurement, and he was good at it.
Next, he swapped his van for the hulking flatbed trailer, its tires still caked with Wasteland mud. This was for the heavy lifting. At a building supply depot, under the watchful eye of a forklift driver, thirty metric tons of bagged cement were loaded onto the bed, followed by coils of thick, black PVC pipe. The trailer groaned in protest, settling lower on its axles.
A more conventional man might have bought rebar, gravel, electrical wire. But Michael, the self-crowned king of make-do-and-mend, thought like a scavenger-lord. Sand and gravel? The Barrens were a quarry waiting to be opened. He had strong backs and hungry mouths to feed; they could dig. Rebar? The ruins, large and small, were a forest of twisted steel. A sledgehammer and sweat could straighten anything. Wire? Peel it from the skeletons of the old world. Why spend good money on what catastrophe had provided in absurd, melancholic abundance?
It was, he reflected with immense satisfaction, the height of frugal genius. Every yuan saved was a yuan that could be spent on better things. On hiscomforts. On the grand, vague, and intoxicating idea of a "factory."
Standing beside his heavily-laden trailer, the diesel fumes of the depot mixing with the dusty smell of cement, he did the math. Even after this spending spree, he'd have over half a million left, plus the pending payment for the farm supplies. A warm, solid feeling of security settled in his chest. This was wealth. This was agency. He was no longer just a leaf blown between two worlds; he was building a raft.
The feeling was so profound, so buoyant, that the buzz of his phone in his pocket felt like an unwelcome intrusion from a lesser reality. He pulled it out. The screen flashed: "Fat Lady Diner – Boss Lady."
He answered, a grin in his voice. "Boss Lady, no need to chase me! You know my schedule—I'm a creature of the night. I'll be by for the… feedstock. The money's ready, don't you worry."
What came back through the speaker was not the usual gruff banter, but a raw, guttural sound that tore at the airwaves—a sob, choked and full of a despair so deep it was physical. It was followed by the boss lady's voice, shattered and trembling, each word a struggle.
"Michael… they… they came last night. They smashed everything. The vats, the boilers, the pipes… everything is gone. It's all… ruined." A wrenching pause, filled with the sound of her trying to breathe. "There's… there's no more. I can't… I can't get it for you anymore."
The solid ground of his newfound security seemed to lurch beneath his feet. The warm glow of prosperity vanished, replaced by the cold splash of a very different, very immediate reality.