Chapter 147
Zhen cleared his throat, reaching for the safety of performance. “Merely… old syndicate business. Han here has a long memory, as you know. He delights in bringing up ancient history. But nothing that should concern you.”
Lucien’s gaze lingered. The pause stretched long enough to press beads of sweat against Zhen’s temple.
Finally, Lucien leaned back again, his smile faint and unnerving. “Good,” he murmured. “Because concern can be… costly.”
Han chuckled dryly, trying to break the tension. “Always the vigilant one, Feng. But tell me, what happens when the past is no longer buried? When the dead rise to speak?”
Lucien’s eyes cut to him, sharp as blades. “Then I silence them before they remember how to scream.”
The words were quiet, almost too quiet, but their weight dropped into the booth like lead. Han’s smirk faltered, just for a breath, before he forced it back.
Zhen swallowed, heart racing, fingers tightening on the folder now hidden beneath the tablecloth. He knew Lucien had seen. He knew Lucien had understood.
But still, Lucien rose smoothly, tugging his cufflinks into place as if nothing more needed to be said.
“Gentlemen,” he murmured, inclining his head faintly. “Enjoy your evening.”
And then he was gone, a ghost slipping back into the shadows of the bar.
Only when the curtain swayed shut again did Zhen realize his hands were trembling. Han sat frozen, his smirk gone, his eyes dark with thought.
“See?” Han whispered at last, voice rougher than before. “I told you. Men like Lucien Feng don’t die quietly.”
Zhen pressed the folder tighter against his chest, but the words did nothing to soothe him. Because for the first time, he wasn’t sure whether he held a weapon, or whether he had just painted a target on his own back.
The moment Lucien stepped out of the bar, the night air hit him like ice. His expression didn’t flicker, but inside, his thoughts were steel grinding against stone.
Meilin Zhao.
The name hadn’t been spoken aloud, but he could feel its shadow breathing behind Zhen’s guarded eyes, in Han’s reckless smirk. The past he’d buried so carefully… was clawing to the surface.
Two of his men slipped out of the black sedan waiting across the street, moving into step without needing instruction.
“Trail them,” Lucien ordered, his voice low and sharp. “Separate lines. Han first. Zhen second. I want every word, every meeting, every call.”
“Yes, sir.”
The men vanished into the shadows, splitting paths as Han and Zhen emerged from the bar minutes later, each unaware they’d just inherited silent shadows.
Lucien, meanwhile, slid into the back seat of the sedan. His driver glanced into the rearview mirror, awaiting direction.
“Not home,” Lucien said, eyes narrowing as the city lights slid across his face. “Take me to the East Docks. Pier Nine.”
The driver didn’t ask questions.
Lucien’s gaze drifted out the window, but his mind was nowhere near the blur of neon signs and passing headlights. He was sifting through memory, through threads he’d cut years ago.
Pier Nine.
There was one man still alive who’d been there the night the syndicate trade was brokered, the night Meilin Zhao disappeared. A man who owed Lucien his life, and debts had a way of binding tighter than chains.
The car pulled into the damp, oil slicked stretch of the docks. Cranes loomed like skeletons, containers stacked like forgotten tombs. The sea wind carried salt and rust, stinging his nose.
Inside a warehouse converted into a shabby office, the man Lucien sought was exactly where he expected him to be, hunched over a desk littered with cigarette butts and unpaid bills.
Wang Shuren.
An old syndicate runner, half retired, half rotting, but he had been there. He had seen.
Lucien stepped inside without knocking, his presence swallowing the dimly lit room whole.
Wang looked up, startled, cigarette dangling from his lips. His bloodshot eyes widened. “F.. Feng…? After all these years...”
Lucien didn’t waste words. He closed the door behind him, the soft click sounding more final than a slam.
“You were at Pier Nine the night Meilin Zhao vanished,” Lucien said, his voice velvet over iron. “You saw what happened. And you’re going to tell me everything you remember.”
Wang paled, fingers trembling as ash spilled across his desk. He opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes darting like a trapped rat.
Lucien’s gaze hardened, cutting through the smoke filled air.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warned softly. “Because if Han thinks he can weaponize her name against me… I need to know exactly what truth he believes he’s found.”
Wang swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. His hand shook as he stubbed out the cigarette, and when he finally spoke, his voice cracked with the weight of memory.
“It wasn’t supposed to go that way…”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. The noose was tightening.
“Then tell me,” he said, voice low and commanding, “how it did go.”
The warehouse was silent except for the low hum of the sea wind pressing against rusted shutters. Wang Shuren’s hand trembled as he reached for another cigarette, but Lucien’s eyes pinned him to his seat.
“No more stalling,” Lucien said quietly, his voice coiled like a whip. “Speak.”
Wang lit the cigarette anyway, as if the small ember was the only light he trusted in the suffocating dark. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around his words.
“It was… chaos, Feng. That night wasn’t a clean transaction. Too many factions sniffing around. Everyone wanted leverage.”
Lucien leaned against the desk, arms folded, his face unreadable.
“Meilin Zhao,” he prompted, his tone flat. “Where does she fit?”
Wang flinched at the name, his yellowed eyes darting away. “She wasn’t supposed to be there. Someone brought her in… said she’d be part of the exchange. Pretty little thing, too proud to beg, too angry to be afraid. Reminded me of...”
He cut himself short, eyes flicking to Lucien.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. Serena. That’s what Wang hadn’t said.
“Go on.”