Dawn seeped into Qí Hǔ's room like a slow grey tide washing over the familiar shapes of the low ceiling and the single wardrobe. He hadn't truly slept, the hours passing in a rigid stillness on the thin mattress, his eyes tracing unseen patterns overhead while the brutal choreography of the alley replayed relentlessly in his mind. The groans, the sharp cracks, the cold precision of his own movements echoed louder than the city's distant murmur, the silence left by the unwelcome committee pressing down heavier than any shouted threat. He rose at five-thirty, the movements ingrained muscle memory, splashing cold water on his face where the faded scar above his collarbone stood stark in the gloom. Dressing in the worn grey cotton and black t-shirt, the fabric familiar against his skin, he descended to the shop where the comforting scents of sandalwood and aged silk did little to mask the phantom metallic tang of violence clinging to the air. Lighting a single stick of incense, its frail blue smoke a fragile defense against encroaching unease, he felt the cobalt thread tucked away in its drawer like a physical weight, a dark lodestone pulling at the edges of his awareness.
The hidden door to his training room opened with a soft sigh, cool air washing over him as the worn wooden dummy stood impassive under the spotlight's glare. For thirty minutes, the only sounds were the controlled rhythm of his breath and the sharp, percussive thwack of flesh meeting wood, yet the meditation felt fractured, every strike carrying the ghostly impact of last night's encounters – the leader's sudden collapse, the sickening snap of the skinny kid's wrist, the wet crunch of the chain-wielder's jaw. He channeled the lingering adrenaline, the simmering fury at the intrusion, into punishing combinations that made the dummy shudder violently, emerging with sweat cooling rapidly on his skin, the knot of tension in his gut remaining, a cold, hard fist. He ate the rice cakes and banana from the Lucky Star bag, washing them down with cheap green tea while standing behind the counter, the food tasting like ash before he flipped on the harsh fluorescent lights and unlatched the heavy wooden shutters, pushing them open to the alley's jarringly normal morning symphony: Old Man Li's rhythmic broom scrape, the baozi vendor's familiar cry, the grumble of delivery trikes navigating the narrow passage where violence had briefly erupted. Giving Li shū his usual curt nod, he retreated inside before the old man could offer commentary or breakfast.
The morning crawled by without Madame Wu seeking her storm-sky thread or harried tailors demanding immediate satin linings, leaving the shop cavernous and unnaturally silent, the vibrant silks seeming oddly muted under the stark light. He busied himself with pointless tasks, rearranging perfectly ordered spools and meticulously dusting spotless shelves, the repetitive motions a flimsy barrier against the waiting stillness until the bell jangled sharply just after ten. Mrs. Bao bustled in, a thick ledger tucked under her arm like a shield, her face etched with perpetual mild anxiety as she approached the counter and set the ledger down with a soft thud. "Qí xiānsheng, another month gone, can you believe it? Time really does fly, especially when the bills start landing on the mat," she announced, her voice high and slightly breathless, offering a thin, nervous smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Qí Hǔ said nothing, simply turning to unlock the small, battered metal cash box bolted securely beneath the counter and pulling out a thick, cream-colored envelope which he slid across the worn wood towards her.
Mrs. Bao picked it up, her fingers moving with practiced speed as she counted the contents without looking down, the crisp rustle of new banknotes filling the quiet space. "Three thousand kuài, always so prompt, Qí xiānsheng, truly a model tenant," she murmured, tucking the envelope securely into her ledger before continuing, "and the two thousand for the utilities share? That old boiler, you know… it's like pouring money down a drain, the fuel it consumes…" She trailed off, looking at him expectantly. Qí Hǔ reached back into the cash box, counting out twenty crisp one-hundred-yuan notes – ¥2,000 – and placing them neatly on the counter beside the ledger with precise, economical movements devoid of flourish. Scooping them up and adding them quickly to her collection, Mrs. Bao sighed, "There we are, all settled, such a relief," the sound conveying the immense weight of the world's financial burdens resting solely on her narrow shoulders. "Things… quiet here? No trouble?" she asked, her gaze flickering almost imperceptibly towards the alley entrance. "Quiet," Qí Hǔ echoed, his voice flat as slate. "Good, good, quiet is best, especially these days, with everything…" she replied, clutching the ledger tightly to her chest before adding, "well, until next month, Qí xiānsheng," and bustling out, the bell jangling in her wake, leaving behind a faint scent of lavender sachets.
The silence rushed back in, thicker and heavier than before as Qí Hǔ locked the cash box, the mundane transaction feeling like an anchor in a world suddenly adrift, though the anchor chain felt perilously thin. He was meticulously realigning a perfectly straight bolt of indigo brocade when the bell jangled again barely an hour later, admitting a young woman in a crisp, dark blue police uniform, her hair pulled back in a severe bun that accentuated a serious, observant face. She carried a standard-issue notepad and pen, her sharp gaze sweeping over the bolts of fabric and rainbow shelves of thread before landing on Qí Hǔ. "Mr. Qi?" she asked, her voice clear and efficient. He inclined his head slightly. "Yes." "Officer Zhang," she identified herself, showing her badge briefly, "following up on last night's incident report, mind if I ask you a few more questions?" Stepping further in, her posture relaxed but attentive, she pulled out her notepad as Qí Hǔ gestured vaguely towards the space in front of the counter. "Go ahead."
"We've spoken to the individuals involved, or at least, the ones who were conscious enough to talk," Officer Zhang began, clicking her pen, "their stories are… predictably vague, claim they were just 'hanging out,' you misinterpreted, started the fight." She paused, watching him. "We know better, forensics and the initial scene report don't support that, but I need your account again, Mr. Qi, more detail this time; what exactly happened, from the moment you saw them?" Qí Hǔ leaned back slightly against the shelves behind the counter, his arms loosely folded, his voice low, steady, devoid of embellishment. "I was returning from the Lucky Star supermarket, I had groceries," he nodded towards the bag on the counter corner. "They were waiting near the dumpster past my shop, five of them, blocked the alley when I approached, the big one, shaved head, silver chain, did the talking." "What did he say?" Officer Zhang prompted, pen poised. "Demanded something, said they knew I had 'special thread,' cobalt silk, wanted all of it, said if I didn't hand it over, they'd make it hard for me to work, threatened broken fingers," Qí Hǔ recounted flatly. "And your response?" "Told them I didn't have it," he stated smoothly. "Then?" "The big one swung, a punch aimed at my head, I moved, hit him here," Qí Hǔ tapped a spot just below his own sternum, "he went down, couldn't breathe, the others came at me then." "All at once?" Officer Zhang asked, scribbling notes. "Mostly, one tried a knife-hand strike, I broke his wrist, another swung a chain, I hit his jaw, he went down, one tried to grab me from behind, broke his nose with my head, punched his stomach, the last one kicked at my knee, missed, I hit a nerve in his thigh, paralyzed it, he fell," he delivered the sequence clinically.
Officer Zhang looked up, her expression a mixture of professional detachment and undisguised disbelief. "You broke a man's wrist, shattered another's jaw, broke a nose, and paralyzed a leg… with your hands? In what, seconds?" "Less than ten, they weren't skilled, just angry and stupid," Qí Hǔ confirmed. "And you are?" she asked, the question hanging heavy. "A shopkeeper who doesn't like being threatened," he replied, meeting her gaze steadily. She held his look for a long moment, then glanced back at her notes, shaking her head slightly. "They mentioned a 'boss,' someone who sent them for this thread, any idea who that could be? Anyone you've had dealings with who might want to pressure you?" "No," Qí Hǔ said, "I keep to myself." She asked a few more routine questions – confirming contact details, asking if he felt unsafe, if he'd seen anyone suspicious – before snapping her notepad shut. "Alright, Mr. Qi, that's all for now, we'll be in touch if anything develops, try to stay aware of your surroundings," she said, giving him a final appraising look before turning and leaving, the bell jangling softly behind her.
The silence after her departure felt charged, the air thinner as Qí Hǔ turned back to the indigo brocade, his fingers tracing the intricate woven pattern without seeing it, the cobalt thread pulsing silently in its drawer like a dark heartbeat beneath the surface calm. Perhaps twenty minutes later, the bell jangled again, its sound sharper this time, and a different kind of presence filled the doorway. This officer wasn't young or tentative; he carried an air of weary authority, his dark uniform impeccably pressed, a pair of mirrored sunglasses perched on his nose despite the shop's dim interior. He was roughly Qí Hǔ's age, maybe a year or two older, with a solid build that hadn't yet softened with desk work, though his posture held a certain stiffness, an ingrained wariness. He stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking softly on the worn wooden floorboards, his head turning slowly as he took in the cramped space, the towering bolts of fabric, the overwhelming profusion of colour and texture. A faint, almost imperceptible wrinkle appeared on his brow, a subtle tightening around his mouth suggesting discomfort, perhaps disdain, for the cluttered, slightly dusty reality of Qi's Silken Threads after the sterility of a precinct.
His gaze swept past the shelves, dismissing the spools of thread like irrelevant clutter, and finally landed on Qí Hǔ standing behind the counter. For a long moment, he simply stared, his expression unreadable behind the dark lenses. Qí Hǔ met the hidden gaze steadily, his own face a mask of impassive stone, waiting. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, charged with an unspoken tension that hadn't been present with Officer Zhang. Then, slowly, deliberately, the officer raised a hand, fingers closing around the arm of his sunglasses. He pulled them off, revealing eyes that were dark, intelligent, and suddenly, shockingly familiar. Eyes that held twelve years of unspoken history, of shared hardship in the cold dormitories of the Harbor Light Orphanage, of fierce loyalty and, later, bewildered betrayal.
The recognition was instantaneous and seismic. It wasn't a slow dawning; it was a lightning strike. Qí Hǔ felt the air leave his lungs, a silent punch to the gut that rooted him to the spot. His carefully constructed walls, the emotional armor forged over years of isolation, didn't just crack; they threatened to shatter completely under the weight of that gaze.
"Tiger?" the name escaped the officer's lips, a hoarse whisper that seemed to echo in the suddenly silent shop. It was the old nickname, the one only the orphans from Harbor Light had used, a name buried deep, almost forgotten. Then, the officer's stern composure dissolved. A raw, disbelieving joy flooded his features, erasing years of cynicism and duty. "Qí Hǔ? By all the forgotten gods... it *is* you!" Before Qí Hǔ could react, could process the impossible reality standing before him, the man was moving, striding around the counter with surprising speed for someone who seemed so contained moments before. He didn't stop, didn't hesitate. He threw his arms around Qí Hǔ in a fierce, back-thumping embrace that was pure, unadulterated shock and overwhelming relief.
"Chén Léi," Qí Hǔ breathed, the name feeling foreign, ancient, on his tongue. He didn't return the embrace. He stood rigid, stunned, engulfed by the scent of starched cotton, gun oil, and the unmistakable, long-lost essence of the brother he had abandoned. The ghost wasn't just at the door; it had walked right in and grabbed him. The carefully mended world, already frayed by violence and suspicion, seemed to tear wide open.