Who Rules Kowloon

June 1997, Mong Kok

The rain cuts down like knives. You stand at the gates of Stanley Prison, watching the rain beat against the iron gates, kicking up white mist. There's only a single letter in your pocket, with "From Ah Cheong" written on the envelope. You stub out your last cigarette and board a red minibus. The cabin is thick with the smell of sweat and the dialogue of old Cantonese films. Through the blurry glass, the neon lights of Kowloon stretch into red and blue streaks before your eyes.

"Back already?" The minibus driver glances at you in the rearview mirror. You don't answer.

The bus stops at Mong Kok Road. You get off, and the rain gets heavier. The sign for the Golden Supreme Nightclub flickers at the corner—it's still that blood-red "Gold" character. You push open the door. Cold air mixed with perfume hits you in the face. A woman leans against the bar, curly hair draping over her shoulders, her cheongsam slit all the way to her thigh, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

"Little brother." Sister Rose flicks the ash off her cigarette, a half-smile on her face. "Still not dead yet?"

Her eyes flicker in the neon light. You remember how seductive she was when she was young; though there are wrinkles at the corners of her eyes now, she is still painfully beautiful. A moment of silence, with only the low hum of the air conditioner.

She pushes an envelope over. "Ah Cheong's things. I kept them for you."

Inside the envelope is not money, but a gambling cruise token, and a sentence—"Letters can lie, and men's hearts are bottomless."

The rain outside hasn't stopped. The sound of meat cleavers chopping echoes from the street.

Late Night, Temple Street, Yau Ma Tei

White steam from the food stalls rises under the neon lights. You break apart a pair of chopsticks and pick up some wonton noodles, but accidentally bite your lip. Around you, diners shout and beer bottles clink.

A figure sits down opposite you. Wearing a black Tang suit with a thick gold chain around his neck—Chan Yat-ming. He has a scar on his face, but his eyes are as bright as a wolf-dog's.

"Thought you died in there." He lowers his voice, pouring a cup of tea and pushing it over. "Big Brother was right, you'd definitely come back."

He pulls out a newspaper bundle and opens it to reveal a switchblade, its handle wrapped in black tape. With his other hand, he sets down a ring of keys. "Safehouse, Mong Kok West. The passcode is your birthday."

"Uncle Cheong left some things that you need to see for yourself. When you have time, go to the old building in Sham Shui Po to see your dad first."

He stands up and pats your shoulder with a heavy grip, then vanishes into the white steam.

You flick open the switchblade, its blade reflecting the neon light. From the Yau Ma Tei night market comes the intermittent sound of opera singing—"The General's Command".

The bowl of wonton noodles on the table has already gone cold.

Early Morning, Mong Kok Road

The rain has stopped, but the air is still damp. Standing outside the Golden Supreme, you hold the gambling cruise token in your left hand and grip the switchblade in your right. The neon lights reflect in the puddles like spilled paint.

You remember Uncle Cheong's final words—"Letters can lie, and men's hearts are bottomless."

Where should you go?

"Go home if you're underage. This is no place for kids."

A woman's voice shatters the silence. You turn around. Madam Ah Hung is leaning against a lamppost, chewing gum, her eyes sharp as a hawk's. She scratches her police cap and stares at you.

"You smell like a blade."

She doesn't step forward, just tilts her head and watches you. The sweat on your hand sticks to the knife handle.

In the distance, car tires roll over the wet road. Sounds of fighting and clattering basins echo from the bar street. The neon tube overhead flashes violently.

You grip the knife tight and take a breath. On this first night, you finally stand before your own underworld.