Tòumíng headed to the back of his building where the bike rack sat under a flickering overhead light. Sure enough, there it was—his electric bike, exactly where Měi Nán said it would be. Even had a new lock on it, a cheap one but functional.
"Huh. He actually brought it back."
"Shocking display of basic decency," Cupid muttered.
Tòumíng unlocked the bike, swung his leg over, and powered it on. The display lit up showing full battery. Měi Nán had even charged it. That was... unexpectedly considerate for someone who'd stolen it in the first place.
He pulled out of the parking area and headed deeper into the nicer part of Longhua, the streets getting progressively cleaner, the buildings taller and more maintained. This was the district he used to avoid—too many security cameras, too many people who'd call police on someone who looked like they didn't belong.
The bike picked up speed as he went downhill onto Qingxiu Road, wind whipping past his face, the white hoodie probably a terrible choice for bike riding but looking good while doing it. He whistled tunelessly, feeling the particular kind of confidence that came from having money in your fanny pack and designer clothes on your back.
Qingxiu Road. He'd been kicked out of here so many times. Caught stealing food from market stalls when he was younger. Accused of loitering outside expensive shops. Security guards physically escorting him away for "lowering property values" just by existing in his coal-stained work clothes.
But now? Now he looked respectable. Now he fit in.
The bike glided past marble pillars marking the entrance to the commercial district, past luxury car dealerships and boutique stores with window displays worth more than his yearly income used to be. Eventually, a large two-story building caught his eye.
"Tender Gold Restaurant."
The name made absolutely no sense. What did "tender gold" even mean? Was the gold tender? Was it a restaurant that served tender things made of gold? The English-to-Chinese translation had clearly gotten mangled somewhere along the way.
But it looked expensive. Large glass windows, warm lighting inside, well-dressed people visible at tables. Perfect.
Tòumíng parked his bike in the designated rack outside, locked it with Měi Nán's cheap lock, and walked toward the entrance with as much confidence as he could project.
The host stood at a podium inside the doorway a young woman in an elegant uniform, hair pulled back in a severe bun, expression professionally neutral. Her eyes tracked him as he approached, taking in the white designer hoodie, the camo cargo pants, the fanny pack, the general vibe of "young person with questionable fashion sense but obvious money."
Influencer, her expression said. Another one doing it for the social media posts.
"Table for one?" she asked, her tone polite but carrying the slight condescension reserved for people she assumed were there to take photos rather than actually eat.
"Yeah, please."
She grabbed a menu without checking reservations influencers rarely made reservations and gestured toward the dining area. "Right this way."
That was easy. Tòumíng followed her into the restaurant, trying not to grin too obviously at how simple it had been.
Fifty meters back, the five gang members had watched Tòumíng enter the restaurant with collective confusion.
"Uh, why's he going in a restaurant of all places?" The question came from the largest of them—a bald, heavyset man who was obviously muscle, probably hired more for intimidation than intelligence.
"Obviously the restaurant is a front for something," the skinny one with yellow teeth replied, cigarette dangling from his lip despite the no-smoking signs posted every ten meters. "He's here to meet someone for top business. Exchange information. Maybe a handoff."
"A handoff of what?"
"I don't know! Gems? Money? Secrets? That's what we're here to find out!"
Donny, the one with the flip phone, looked at the restaurant's elegant entrance with growing concern. "How are we supposed to go in there? We can't just walk into a fancy place like this."
The skinny one looked at him like he was stupid. "Duh. We look rich."
They all looked at themselves. Flannel shirts. Plain white t-shirts. One guy wearing cargo shorts in March. Work boots. Cigarette smell embedded in every fiber.
They looked exactly like what they were: low-level gang members who'd gotten two hundred thousand yuan to tail someone and were wildly out of their depth.
Except Donny.
Donny, through pure coincidence of having worked a legitimate day job before getting into gang activity, was wearing an actual work suit. Slightly rumpled, the tie loosened, the jacket showing its age, but still recognizably business attire.
"Donny's wearing a suit," one of them observed.
"Yeah, from my day job. I install security systems during—"
"You go in," Yellow Teeth interrupted. "Tell them you have a reservation. We're with you. Business associates."
"I don't have a reservation!"
"Then make one up! Say it's under... I don't know, Wang. There's always a Wang."
"This is a terrible plan."
"You have a better one?"
Donny did not have a better one.
They approached the entrance as a group, trying to look like legitimate businessmen and failing spectacularly. The muscle guy kept cracking his knuckles. Yellow Teeth couldn't stop smoking even though he'd just put out his cigarette. The other two walked with the swagger of people who'd learned body language from action movies.
Donny led the way, straightening his tie, trying to project confidence he absolutely did not feel.
The host looked up as they entered, her professional expression flickering with barely concealed concern. Five men, four of them looking deeply suspicious, one in a wrinkled suit trying very hard to seem legitimate.
"Good evening," Donny said, his voice cracking slightly. "Reservation for... Wang?"
The host checked her tablet. "I don't see a Wang in the system."
"It might be under... uh... Chen?"
"No Chen either."
"Maybe... Li?"
The host's expression went from concerned to annoyed. "Sir, do you have a reservation or not?"
"We're with him!" Yellow Teeth blurted out, pointing toward the dining area where Tòumíng had disappeared. "That kid in the white hoodie! Business meeting!"
The host looked at them really looked at them taking in the flannel shirts, the cigarette smell, the obvious weapons poorly concealed under jackets, the way they stood like people ready for violence rather than dinner.
"You're business associates...." she said flatly.
"Yes! Very important business! Top secret business!" The muscle guy nodded enthusiastically.
This was clearly a lie. Obviously a lie. The kind of lie that should have gotten them kicked out immediately.
But the host had been working in high-end restaurants long enough to recognize when refusing service might create more problems than allowing it. And these men, suspicious as they were, hadn't actually done anything yet beyond being obviously out of place.
Also, there was always the possibility they were telling the truth. Rich people had weird associates sometimes. Especially young rich people trying to look edgy.
She sighed, the sound of someone whose shift was too long and whose patience was too thin.
"Fine. Table for five. Please follow me."
The gang members exchanged victorious glances as they filed in behind her, trying very hard to look like they belonged and succeeding not at all.
Yellow Teeth leaned over to Donny and whispered: "See? Told you it would work."
"We look like we're about to rob the place."
"That's just good intimidation tactics. Keeps people respectful."
They were led to a table near the back the host clearly trying to minimize their visibility to other diners and handed menus with prices that made several of them visibly pale.
Across the restaurant, Tòumíng sat at his own table near a window, completely oblivious to the five amateur criminals who'd just followed him into an overpriced establishment, studying a menu and trying to figure out what "pan-seared foie gras with balsamic reduction" meant.