Peizhi stared at the ink coiled along Jianmo’s forearm—the jagged fangs of the Jade Serpent split down the center by a blackened blade. Street gossip along the pier had always warned of an operative called the Harvester, a myth she had never connected to Tienya’s quiet spouse. Peizhi looked from the ink to his impassive face as he offered warm milk to his dozing bride, then down to Chenzhe groaning on the floorboards. Tienya reached for the mug without sitting up. “Thank you, dearest. My throat felt scratchy after all that commotion.” Before Jianmo could respond, a sudden, jarring crash from the street below shattered the domestic scene. Tires shrieked, metal groaned, and a deep, guttural roar of an engine echoed up. “What was that?” Tienya mumbled, already turning towards the window. “Sounds like someone’s having a bad day.” Jianmo’s eyes tracked toward the window, then cut directly toward Peizhi. A blunt signal to keep quiet. Peizhi pushed off the floorboards, leaving the scattered bank notes behind. Then, the apartment door, which had been left slightly ajar, burst inward with a splintering crack. Three hulking figures, clad in dark, oil-stained jumpsuits, filled the frame. Their faces were obscured by grimy bandanas, but the glint of steel from their belts was unmistakable. One, a man with a notched eyebrow, pointed a thick finger at Tienya. “There she is. Boss Ma wants her.” Tienya blinked, her head tilting. “Boss Ma? Do I know a Boss Ma? Is this about the cat drawings? Tell him I only take commissions for very specific naps now. And only if the fabric is cashmere.” The notched-brow man exchanged a baffled look with his comrades. “No, ma’am. This is… an invitation. From Boss Ma.” He gestured vaguely. Peizhi noticed the tension bunched in Jianmo’s shoulders. She started to shout, “Tienya, no! They’re not—” But Jianmo’s hand, faster than she could track, clamped over her mouth. His grip was firm, not painful, but utterly unyielding. His eyes, though still fixed on the intruders, conveyed a clear message: *Stay out of this.* He gave a tiny nod to the notched-brow intruder. Tienya, oblivious to the silent communication, brightened. “An invitation? Oh, how delightful! Is it a new spa? Jianmo, darling, did you arrange a surprise pampering session for me? You’re so thoughtful!” She beamed toward him, then toward the stunned intruders. “Well, don’t linger! My house shoes are beside the wardrobe, and I only drink green tea before a soak. Someone grab my sketchbook too. Fluffy bath towels tend to spark my creativity.” The thugs exchanged another look, their initial aggression faltering in the face of Tienya’s cheerful demands. The notched-brow intruder lowered his hand by inches, glancing between the couple as if waiting for a signal. Jianmo merely gave him a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. “Right,” the leader muttered, scratching his stubble. “Shoes. Green tea. Book. Move.” He jerked his chin at an underling, who scrambled toward the wardrobe to retrieve her flats. The third intruder stared blankly at an empty porcelain cup on the counter. Jianmo released Peizhi, who stumbled back, gasping. He gave her a look that promised consequences if she interfered further. He watched as his wife, completely unfazed, allowed herself to be gently guided out of the apartment, chattering happily about the ideal temperature for bathwater. “And please, no harsh detergents. My skin breaks out easily,” she instructed them, as if addressing hotel porters. The men nodded without arguing. Once the door closed behind them, Peizhi spun on Jianmo. “Are you out of your mind?! Those were Boss Ma’s enforcers! They took her!” Jianmo merely picked up the cup of warm milk and took a slow sip. “She will remain untouched,” he said evenly. He leveled a steady gaze at Peizhi. “Say nothing of this. If you interfere, every warehouse picket you have organized will be cleared out by midnight. Are we clear?” Peizhi clamped her teeth shut. His tone held no bluff; he meant every syllable. *** Hours later, Peizhi raced through the grimy alleys, the neon glow of Shanjin casting long, shifting shadows. She navigated the wet gutters between warehouse rows, intent on trailing the route Jianmo had taken after slipping out the back stairwell. Her informants had pointed her to the abandoned Sunken Docks, a notorious haunt for the city’s underground. She found him there, not alone, but surrounded. The air thrummed with raw power, with the scent of gun oil and stale cigar smoke. A dozen armed men in grease-stained jackets stood sentry beneath rusted sodium fixtures. Jianmo stood among them wearing a charcoal wool jacket over an open collar, assigning positions with clipped, quiet gestures. The rough-handed laborer from the piers was nowhere to be seen. Peizhi shrank behind a rusted freight container, listening as the perimeter guards locked the perimeter gate. *** Up in the opulent Jade Serpent Penthouse, Tienya reclined on a velvet chaise lounge, a silk robe draped over her, two thugs fanning her with palm fronds. The penthouse was lavish, ostentatious, with gold accents and imported marble, but Tienya found the decor a bit… loud. Still, the temperature was perfect, and the tea, once they finally managed to brew it correctly, was decent. “You know,” Tienya mused after a careful sip, “this parlor is more spacious than I expected. Though Jianmo usually mentions when he arranges an appointment at the bathhouse. The attendants here seem rather stiff.” She gestured vaguely at the two burly men guarding the door. “And they still haven’t found my scented bath bombs. Such a shame.” One of the thugs, a burly man named Hu, shifted nervously. He’d been assigned to ‘keep an eye’ on her, but mostly he’d been running errands for her. Warm tea, candied kumquats from a pantry tin, and fresh velvet cushions. He had even drawn a passable calico on a napkin when she complained of having no charcoal paper. “Ma’am,” Hu said, trying to sound authoritative, “Boss Ma will be here shortly. He has… matters to discuss.” Tienya waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, dear. He’s going to talk business, isn’t he? I do hope it won’t be too strenuous. My head tends to ache if I think too hard about numbers.” She gave an airy yawn. “Could you bring another pillow? A down one, if you have it. This velvet feels rather firm.” Hu sighed, rubbing his temples. He was supposed to be intimidating her, but she was just so… demanding. And so utterly oblivious. He turned to the other thug, one of Boss Ma’s newly promoted enforcers, a young, ambitious man named Lixin. “Go tell Boss Ma she needs a softer pillow. And no strenuous business talk.” Lixin scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Are you serious, Hu? She belongs to the syndicate’s chief executioner! Boss Ma plans to butcher her freight-hauling mate to corner the docks, and you’re fluffing cushions!” The words hung in the air, sharp and clear. *Murder her dockworker husband.* Tienya’s hand, reaching for another candied kumquat, froze mid-air. The soft, languid haze that usually veiled her eyes slowly, irrevocably, began to recede. Her gaze, still, then sharp, fixed on Lixin’s smug face. The penthouse seemed to dim, the vibrant colors muted. Her ceramic cup tilted, dropping into the thick carpet without a sound. Jianmo. Her attentive, quiet provider. In direct danger because someone thought he was disposable leverage. Her eyes, no longer lazy, scanned the room, landing on a low mahogany table near the window. Amidst a scattering of empty liquor bottles and discarded cigar butts lay a leather-bound ledger, its pages spilling out. A syndicate blackmail ledger, forgotten in the chaos. Tienya slowly rose from the chaise, her silk robe rustling softly. Her bare feet made no sound on the plush carpet as she walked towards it. Her hand reached out, picking up the heavy book. Her smooth, ink-stained fingers gripped the binding with firm pressure. She glanced up at the two men, her posture straightening entirely. “Nobody,” Tienya murmured, her voice a low, dangerous whisper that made Hu take an involuntary step back, “threatens my retirement.” Just then, the heavy brass doors of the elevator chimed, a bright, cheerful sound that seemed violently out of place. The doors slid open, revealing a figure silhouetted against the harsh light of the service corridor. Jianmo. His tailored suit was torn, his knuckles were bruised, and a dark, sticky trail of crimson painted a violent stripe down the side of his face. He was drenched in blood.

Blood on the Velvet