The streets never slept in Mong Kok.

  Even past midnight, the air was thick with the smell of grilled squid skewers, diesel smoke, and the faint perfume of cheap cologne carried by men in tailored suits who should have been home hours ago.

  It was a restless city, and people here learned to move fast with their eyes down and their pockets closed.

  On Tung Choi Street, known to tourists as the Ladies’ Market, most of the stalls had shut their metal shutters.

  The chatter of bargaining was gone, replaced by the sound of mopeds whining down narrow lanes and the clatter of bottles rolling on the pavement. But in one of the upper floors above the closed shops, lights were still on.

  Lian adjusted her grip on the knife tucked inside her jacket. She didn’t look like much—mid-twenties, wiry, hair tied back in a simple knot, dressed in dark jeans and a hooded jacket that could have been bought from any of the street stalls below.

  Her target tonight wasn’t far.

  A man named Chow Wing-tat, a mid-level customs official with a reputation for turning his head at cargo containers that carried more than electronics.

  He had been careful for years, taking his cut and hiding behind the respectable facade of government paperwork. But recently he had gotten greedy. His people had started moving children.

  That was enough to put him on the list.

  Lian’s eyes flicked to the earpiece tucked behind her hair. A soft voice crackled through.

  “You’re good. He’s inside right now. Apartment 3B. There’s one guard outside the door smoking and there are no cameras in the stairwell.”

  Her brother always sounded calm when he was on comms. Kai was only twenty-one, three years younger than her, but he had the kind of patience she never had.

  He handled surveillance, logistics, and cleanup. She handled the blade.

  “Copy,” she whispered. She slipped into the stairwell, where the light above her head started to buzz like a trapped insect. The walls smelled of mold and piss.

  Halfway up, she slowed her steps. The guard was exactly where Kai said he’d be—leaning against the doorframe of 3B with a cigarette between his lips and scrolling through his phone. He was bulky but bored, the kind of man who thought a gun in his waistband made him untouchable.

  Lian didn’t pull hers. She stepped into the corridor, walked like she belonged, phone to her ear, speaking Cantonese in a low, casual tone that mimicked every other tenant in this building. The guard barely looked up until she was close enough.

  The knife flashed once. Quick, clean. A slice across the carotid, the kind her mother once called a mercy cut. The cigarette fell from his lips before he did. Lian caught him under the arms, dragged him silently into the shadows beside a cleaning closet.

  “Guard’s down,” she murmured.

  “Reading stable,” Kai’s voice came back. “You have a two-minute window before his next check-in.”

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  She pressed a gloved hand against the door handle of 3B.

  It was locked. Not a problem. Kai had already walked her through the pins. She slid a pick from her pocket and popped it in seconds.

  The apartment smelled like too much cheap cologne, synthetic leather, and the faint musk of someone who thought excess covered rot.

  Inside, Chow Wing-tat sat at a polished dining table, shirt open at the collar, a glass of whiskey sweating in front of him. He was on a video call, the screen glowing faintly on his tablet. Two other men’s faces were visible in small boxes, their conversations were rapid, slurred with arrogance.

  “Shipment arrives at four. Move them straight to Kwai Tsing. My man will clear it.”

  The men on the call laughed. Chow leaned back in his chair, loose and confident, never noticing the shadow behind him until the blade pressed against his throat.

  He froze. His eyes flicked to the reflection in the tablet screen.

  “Wha—”

  “Quiet,” Lian said.

  His hands trembled, hovering above the glass. He tried to keep his voice steady, but the call was still live. “Gentlemen, I’ll call you back.” He ended it quickly, the tablet screen going black.

  “Please,” he whispered. “If it’s money you want, I—”

  “It’s not money.”

  The knife pressed harder, enough to draw a bead of blood that ran down his collar.

  “You traffic children.”

  His breath hitched. “I don’t decide what’s in the containers. I only—”

  “Only looked away,” she said.

  His mouth worked soundlessly. Sweat dripped down his temple. She could smell the whiskey on his breath.

  “Please. I have family—”

  “So did they.”

  The blade sank cleanly, the way her father once taught her to slice fish. Chow’s body convulsed once, then went still. His whiskey glass tipped over, spilling amber liquid across the table.

  Lian pulled the knife free, wiped it on his shirt, and let his head slump forward onto the polished wood. Another name crossed off the list.

  “Target neutralized,” she said into the comm.

  “Copy,” Kai replied. “Get out fast. Someone heard something downstairs. I’m scrambling the feed, but you don’t want to stay.”

  She moved quickly, wiping prints, sliding the knife back into its sheath, and slipping through the door without looking back. The guard’s body was already hidden. The stairwell was still empty.

  By the time she stepped back onto Tung Choi Street, the city was unchanged. Vendors still called half-heartedly to late-night wanderers. A couple argued in harsh tones near a taxi stand.

  Lian melted into the crowd, just another figure with her hood pulled up, walking home after a long night.

  Kai was waiting two blocks away in a parked van, head bent over a laptop glowing against his sharp features. His hair was too long again, falling into his eyes, and he pushed it back with the same distracted gesture she’d seen a thousand times.

  “You took longer than I thought,” he said, without looking up.

  “The guard was lazy,” she replied, sliding into the passenger seat. “He smoked too much.”

  Kai finally glanced at her, scanning quickly for blood, injury, anything out of place. Satisfied, he closed the laptop. “Everything’s wiped. No one saw you.”

  “Good.”

  He started the engine and pulled them onto Nathan Road where buses still roared by carrying night workers home.

  Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. They didn’t need to.

  Finally Kai broke it. “You hungry?”

  Lian exhaled softly. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only the hollow ache it always did. “Noodles,” she said.

  He smiled faintly, small and tired. “Of course.”

  They drove toward Yau Ma Tei, where a twenty-four-hour noodle stall sat tucked between a pawnshop and a pharmacy. The owner didn’t ask questions. He only nodded when they came in, served them steaming bowls of beef brisket noodles, and left them to eat in peace.

  Lian ate slowly, the broth warming her chest. Kai tapped at his phone, already pulling up the next set of names, the next trail.

  This was their life.

  And tomorrow, there would be another name.