The van was parked in a dimly lit garage in Sham Shui Po, squeezed between a rusted Toyota and a stack of cardboard boxes.

  He had gutted the van months ago, rebuilt it from the inside out, every panel and wire replaced until it looked like a cheap delivery vehicle from the outside and a mobile command post on the inside.

  Lian was asleep in the back, stretched across a thin mattress that folded against the wall when not in use. She slept like someone always on edge, one arm folded beneath her head, the other resting against the knife at her belt.

  Kai didn’t sleep much. His work started when hers ended.

  He leaned forward, eyes flicking between lines of code and looping CCTV footage from Tung Choi Street.

  A cup of cold milk tea sat beside his keyboard, condensation dripping onto the plastic surface. He reached for it absentmindedly, took a sip, and frowned at how watery it had gotten. He set it down and pushed his chair back, stretching his shoulders until his joints cracked.

  The night’s work was almost done. Chow Wing-tat’s death would hit the news cycle by morning, but it would look like another seedy crime in Mong Kok, maybe a robbery, maybe a gang message. That was the point. The city was too loud to notice one more body.

  Still, Kai scrolled through message boards, private police channels, and encrypted forums. His alias, “Feng,” was well-known in those corners. Information was a market, and he played it carefully. Too much chatter drew attention.

  A new post caught his eye: “Customs official found dead, Mong Kok. Cause unknown. Witness reports strange van leaving the area.”

  His pulse quickened. That was too close. He typed quickly, burying the thread beneath false chatter about a fight in Tsim Sha Tsui, flooding it with noise until it would drown by morning.

  Behind him, Lian stirred. He turned slightly, watching as she sat up, rubbing at her face.

  “Time is it?” she asked, voice rough with sleep.

  “Four.”

  She exhaled, swung her legs down, and sat on the edge of the mattress. Her hair had come loose from its knot, strands falling around her face. She looked younger in moments like this, before the steel returned to her eyes.

  “You’re still at it?”

  Kai shrugged. “Cleanup. Making sure no one connects dots.”

  She reached for the bottle of water at her side, took a long drink, and studied him. “You should rest.”

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  “I will.”

  “You always say that.”

  He gave her a faint smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “And I always mean it.”

  Outside, the first hints of morning traffic echoed faintly, delivery trucks and the rumble of a bus pulling out of the depot.

  Lian broke the silence first. “You hungry?”

  Kai gestured to the cup of milk tea. “Already ate.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t count.”

  “I’ll get something later.”

  “Now.”

  She stood, pulled on her jacket, and grabbed the keys from the hook by the door. Kai sighed, shut his laptop, and followed. She was like that—decisive, impatient, unwilling to let him disappear into screens.

  The streets were waking up as they stepped outside. Shops rolled up their shutters. Vendors arranged baskets of fruit, the air filling with the sharp tang of oranges and the earthy smell of lychees. The wet market buzzed with early customers bargaining over fish still twitching in shallow trays.

  They walked side by side, blending into the flow. To anyone watching, they looked like siblings on an ordinary morning, tired but familiar with the city.

  They stopped at a congee stall, steam rising from the pots as the owner ladled rice porridge into bowls and topped it with slivers of pork and preserved egg. They ate at a metal table set against the wall, the sound of scooters and clattering bowls surrounding them.

  Lian ate with focus, every spoonful steady. Kai picked at his slowly, lost in thought.

  “You should eat faster,” she said. “It gets cold.”

  He smirked faintly. “Not everything has to be fast.”

  “That’s your problem. You think too long. Hesitation gets you killed.”

  “And rushing gets you sloppy,” he countered, meeting her eyes.

  For a moment, neither spoke. Then Lian’s expression softened, just slightly. “You’re right. But still. Eat before it’s cold.”

  He did.

  After breakfast, they wandered through the street market. Lian bought a cheap lighter, testing its flame before slipping it into her pocket. Kai picked up spare batteries, stuffing them into his backpack without comment.

  By the time they returned to the van, the city was fully awake. Buses crowded Nathan Road. Students in uniforms hurried to school. Street sweepers pushed carts piled high with garbage bags.

  Inside, Kai settled back into his seat, fingers already moving across his keyboard.

  Lian leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You’ll burn out if you keep this pace.”

  He didn’t look up. “And you’ll burn out if I don’t.”

  Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. They had this conversation too many times, and it always ended the same.

  Hours passed. He scrubbed records, rerouted signals, and stored encrypted data on hidden drives scattered across the city. Lian cleaned her knives, sharpening the blades with slow, steady strokes.

  In the afternoon, Kai finally pushed his chair back and closed his laptop. His eyes burned from the screen, but the job was done. Chow Wing-tat’s death was buried under a mountain of noise. There was no trace that could be pointed back to them.

  He lay back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Lian glanced at him.

  “Finally resting?”

  “Finally,” he murmured, already closing his eyes.

  Sleep came quickly. In the quiet, Lian continued to sharpen her blade, the rasp of steel against stone steady, almost soothing.

  And when one rested, the other kept watch.