Tòumíng squinted through the tinted glass door, pressing his face close to try to see inside the darkened shop. His breath fogged the glass as he peered into the gloom.
The merchandise was still there. Rows of shelves filled with pawned items—jewelry, electronics, watches, tools. Nothing appeared to have been looted or disturbed. Even Xuān Láng's signature monocle—the ridiculous affectation he wore to look more sophisticated—was still sitting on the desk where he always left it.
But the shop was empty. Silent. Wrong.
Tòumíng didn't know why, but a bad feeling was crawling up his spine. The kind of instinctive dread that came from years of living in dangerous situations, of learning to recognize when something was off.
He walked around to the back of the building, down the narrow alley that smelled like garbage and stale urine. The back door was metal, painted green, with a simple deadbolt lock.
He tried the handle. Locked tight.
"What the hell are you doing?" Cupid's voice cut through his thoughts.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Tòumíng muttered.
He took a step back, raised his foot, and kicked the door as hard as he could.
The lock mechanism shattered on the first impact—his enhanced strength from the regeneration making the task easier than it should have been. The door swung inward, banging against the interior wall.
"YOU JUST BROKE INTO A BUILDING!" Cupid's voice rose with alarm. "THAT'S ILLEGAL! THAT'S VERY ILLEGAL!"
"I know! But something's wrong!"
Tòumíng stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The back room of the pawn shop was cluttered with inventory waiting to be processed—boxes of items, filing cabinets, a small desk covered in paperwork.
He started searching, pulling open drawers randomly, looking for... he didn't know what. Evidence. Clues. Something that would explain the closed shop.
Then he saw it.
On the desk. Dark. Wet-looking even though it had clearly dried.
Blood.
A splatter pattern. Not a lot—maybe a few drops—but unmistakable.
"Oh fuck," Tòumíng whispered.
He fumbled for the light switch, found it, flipped it on.
The fluorescent lights buzzed to life, harsh and revealing.
The blood wasn't just a splatter. It was a streak. A drag mark. Starting at the desk and leading directly to the back door—the door Tòumíng had just kicked in.
Which meant Xuān Láng had been dragged. Either unconscious or dead. Out through this door. Into the alley.
"SHIT!"
Tòumíng ran. Back out the door, into the alley, his heart pounding. He sprinted through the poor district, dodging pedestrians and street vendors, his newly-bought phone bouncing in his pocket, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
He reached the alley where Ghost Claw's base was located and burst through the front door without knocking.
Sven was in the hallway, looking hungover and miserable, holding his mop like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"I need to see Ben!" Tòumíng gasped, out of breath from the sprint. "Right now! It's urgent!"
Sven blinked slowly, his brain clearly not operating at full capacity. "Ben is... in room. Vith guest. Said not to disturb."
"I don't care! This is important!"
Sasha appeared from around a corner, still looking nervous despite the alcohol from last night. She took one look at Tòumíng's panicked expression and nodded.
"Follow me. I'll take you to his room."
She led him up to the second floor, down a hallway Tòumíng hadn't explored before, and stopped in front of a door with a hand-written sign that said "KNOCK OR DIE."
Tòumíng knocked once, barely waited, then opened the door.
He immediately walked in on Ben and another guy aggressively making out on Ben's bed. The other guy was young—maybe twenty, maybe younger—with styled hair and fashionable clothes. They were tangled together, Ben's hand in the guy's hair, the guy's hands under Ben's shirt.
Ben broke the kiss and whipped his head toward the door, his eyes blazing with fury.
"DO YOU MIND?!"
"I'm sorry!" Tòumíng said quickly, not leaving despite the interruption. "But I need your help! It's urgent!"
"It BETTER be fucking urgent!" Ben extracted himself from his companion with visible reluctance. He gave the guy a quick, apologetic kiss. "Sorry, babe. Work emergency. Give me like ten minutes?"
The guy pouted but nodded, straightening his clothes and sitting on the edge of the bed.
Tòumíng took a quick look at him while Ben was getting up. Twinks. Ben definitely had a type. Noted.
Ben walked to his desk—which was covered in monitors and computer equipment—and pulled out his laptop with aggressive movements that communicated how pissed off he was about this interruption.
"You better have a REALLY good reason for barging in here right when I was about to reach second base," he said coldly, opening the laptop and typing in his password.
"I think Xuān Láng is dead or kidnapped."
Ben's fingers paused over the keyboard. He looked up, his expression shifting from angry to professionally interested. "The pawn shop guy? Your fence?"
"Yeah. His shop is closed. There's blood. A drag mark. He's gone."
"Okay." Ben's demeanor changed completely, his personal annoyance shelved in favor of work mode. "At least that's a good excuse for coming here. What do you need?"
"Can you check the security cameras? His shop must have cameras. Can you access them?"
"Probably. Give me a second."
Ben's fingers flew across the keyboard, navigating through what looked like backdoor access to the city's surveillance network. Windows opened and closed rapidly, code scrolled past, and within thirty seconds he had pulled up multiple camera feeds.
"Got it. Pawn shop interior and exterior cameras. What timeframe?"
"Past twenty-four hours."
Ben set the playback to speed—one hour of footage compressed into one minute—and let it run.
Tòumíng watched the accelerated footage. Xuān Láng opening the shop. Customers coming and going. The fat man sitting at his desk, occasionally getting up to show merchandise or complete transactions. Normal business.
Then, around 6 PM yesterday—right around when Tòumíng had been confronting Hǔtān—three people entered the pawn shop.
All wearing black. Black pants, black jackets, black masks covering their faces. Professional. Coordinated.
"Pause it," Tòumíng said. "Can you add audio?"
"Yeah. These cameras have audio. Not great quality, but functional." Ben adjusted settings, and the sound came through—slightly distorted but clear enough.
On screen, Xuān Láng looked up from his desk, his expression shifting to his usual sleazy customer-service face—the fake smile, the calculating eyes assessing what these customers might pawn or purchase.
"Good evening! Welcome to my humble establishment! How may I assist you gentlemen today?" His voice was oily, practiced, the tone of someone who'd perfected the art of appearing helpful while simultaneously trying to rip you off.
One of the masked figures stepped forward. His voice was calm, professional, completely at odds with the threatening appearance.
"We know everything about you, Xuān Láng. Age forty-one. Weight 366 pounds. Height five-foot-ten. Three daughters and one son. The daughters are twenty, seventeen, and fifteen years old respectively. The son is eleven. All currently living at 447 Minghua Road, third floor apartment."
Xuān Láng's fake smile disappeared instantly. His face went pale. "What—how do you—"
"The eldest daughter attends Longhua University, studying accounting. The seventeen-year-old is in high school, excels at mathematics. The fifteen-year-old recently won a city art competition. Your son plays soccer on the weekends at Riverside Park."
Xuān Láng stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. His hands were shaking. "Leave my family alone. Whatever this is, leave them out of it."
"We need your expertise on a matter." The masked figure's voice remained perfectly calm. "Specifically, your knowledge regarding gemstones. We're looking for something very particular. Ice jade. Authentic imperial ice jade from the Qing Dynasty. We have reason to believe such a piece has recently entered the local market."
Xuān Láng's expression shifted from fear to anger. "I don't know anything about that. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you people. Now GET OUT before I call the police!"
"We won't touch your family," the masked figure said. "If you come with us. Voluntarily. Help us locate what we're looking for. Your cooperation ensures their safety. Your refusal..."
He left the threat hanging.
"I'm not going anywhere with you!" Xuān Láng's voice rose, cracking with fear and defiance. "You think you can just—"
The masked figures moved fast. Coordinated. Professional.
Sounds of fighting filled the audio. Scuffling. Xuān Láng's grunts as he tried to defend himself—the pawn shop owner was large, heavy, not easy to subdue. Furniture crashed. Glass broke. His voice rose in panic.
"NO! STOP! I DON'T—"
Then a sound that made Tòumíng's blood run cold.
BANG.
A gunshot. Clear and unmistakable through the audio.
Silence.
Then dragging sounds. Heavy. The noise of something large being pulled across the floor.
The masked figures disappeared from frame, clearly heading toward the back door.
The footage continued for a few more seconds—the empty, destroyed pawn shop—before Ben closed the laptop.
"Fuck," Tòumíng whispered.
Ben's expression was grim. "Professional hit. Or professional kidnapping. Either way, your fence is gone. And given the gunshot..." He didn't finish the sentence.
Tòumíng's hands were shaking. Xuān Láng had been greedy, sleazy, tried to cheat people constantly. But he'd also been the only person willing to buy Tòumíng's compressed gems, no questions asked. Had helped him survive for weeks.
And now he was gone. Possibly dead. Definitely in serious trouble.
Because of ice jade.
Imperial ice jade from the Qing Dynasty.
Something Tòumíng had never even heard of, let alone seen or sold.
"FUCK!" Tòumíng slammed his fist on Ben's desk, making the monitors shake.