Chapter 2: Trouble with the Thugs

At night, the outside world became even more lively than during the day. Vendors of all kinds flooded the main street just outside the residential complex. Though Hong Kong is hailed as the city that never sleeps, that reputation holds true only in its bustling districts.

Lingnan University had only recently moved to this new campus, less than a year ago. The area, known as Tuen Mun, was considered remote and underdeveloped compared to the many other districts of Hong Kong. It was said that, in the past, compared to the prosperity of places like Wan Chai or Kowloon, Tuen Mun might as well have been a slum. It was only when Lingnan University relocated here a year ago, bringing tens of thousands of students, that the local economy began to thrive. Bars, karaoke lounges, and arcades sprang up everywhere like bamboo shoots after the rain.

Chen Erpao wasn’t in the habit of cooking for himself. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was nearly eight and his stomach grumbled. Locking his door, he decided to head out to the main street for dinner.

As he walked, he tore open a packet of betel nut. It was a habit he’d picked up during his years in service, one he couldn’t shake even now. So, when he came to Hong Kong, he’d brought a large supply with him.

With a ding, the elevator doors slid open.

“It’s you,” both Chen Erpao and the person inside exclaimed in surprise. Fate had a sense of humor—inside stood the beautiful woman who, not long ago, had mistaken him for a lecherous uncle.

She gave him an icy glance and, with a soft huff, turned her head away deliberately. Chen Erpao’s gaze fell to the large bag she was carrying.

“Jusco? That name sounds familiar. Where did I hear it before? Why did you buy so much?” He chewed his betel nut leisurely, eyeing the three large letters on her bag.

“Pervert,” she spat, her face flushed red—whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. She shot him a final glare and hurried off.

He watched her tall, elegant figure disappear down the corridor, enjoying the view until she was gone.

Leaving the complex, he walked only a few hundred meters before reaching a boisterous street crammed with stalls and roadside eateries, the sidewalk teeming with a ceaseless flow of people.

He chose a busy food stall, ordered stir-fried snails, squid, fried noodles, and a bottle of beer, then settled into a seat by the edge.

Looking around, he saw all manner of young men and women—some dressed provocatively, tattooed “bad girls” with tiny waists, punks with yellow or green hair and nose rings weaving through the crowd. Among them, some wore glasses and neat, proper clothing—these were clearly the Lingnan University students who’d stayed on campus.

It wasn’t long before his beer and food arrived. Chen Erpao, already starving, wasted no time in digging in. Though the environment lacked the elegance of a hotel restaurant and the flavors weren’t as refined or sweet, the food here was, in truth, quite good—especially the squid, which was particularly flavorful.

“Full at last,” he said, wiping his mouth and stretching lazily. Looking at the empty plates, he smiled in satisfaction.

“Boss, the bill, please,” he called, waving a hundred-dollar note.

The owner, a stocky man in his forties with a kind, honest face, hurried over with a broad smile.

“You’re from Hunan, aren’t you, young man?”

“Judging from your accent, we must be fellow townsmen!” Chen Erpao recognized the dialect. Meeting someone from back home, especially in a distant place like Hong Kong, stirred a sense of camaraderie.

“I’m from Yiyang. Just call me Old Yang,” the owner replied warmly, growing more affable as they spoke.

“What a coincidence! I’m from Yiyang too. Just call me Erpao from now on, haha!” Chen Erpao slung an arm around Old Yang’s shoulders, his military straightforwardness shining through.

At that moment, a loud and arrogant shout shattered their cheerful exchange.

“Damn it, what kind of noodles are these? There’s a fly in them! You call this food fit for people?”

The outburst came from a table of three young men, none older than their early twenties, but already exuding an air of streetwise bravado, playing the part of petty gang leaders.

Old Yang seemed used to such scenes. He quickly put on a conciliatory smile and walked over calmly.

“Gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry. This was an oversight on our part. I’ll have a fresh dish prepared for you right away and send over a few bottles of beer, how about that?”

“Send my ass! Send—why not send your mother over to me, then I might consider it,” sneered the ringleader, a youth with long red hair who flicked his fringe with theatrical nonchalance.

Since the eatery was at the heart of the main street, the commotion drew a crowd of onlookers, nearly half of them young women. Seeing the attention, the three troublemakers grew even more brazen, eager to show off.

Even Old Yang’s good temper was stretched thin; a hint of anger flickered across his face, though he forced a smile as he faced the aggressive trio.

“Gentlemen, how about this: tonight’s meal is on the house, and I’ll throw in a few beers. If you come again, I’ll give you a discount.”

The three punks laughed triumphantly. The red-haired leader spoke with contempt. “Boss, we’ll let it slide tonight. But starting next month, you owe us a thousand dollars a month for protection. This isn’t my idea—it’s from Brother Bao, our boss. He’s in charge of all the streets around here now—direct orders from Tuen Mun’s big boss. That’s how it works.”

(For those familiar with Hong Kong’s triads, the hierarchy runs: Dragon Head – Street Boss – Red and White Double Sticks – Collector – Lookout.)

“Oh, I see now,” Old Yang replied coldly. “So the fly was your doing, just a pretext for extortion. Protection money? I’ve never paid it before, and I won’t start now.” His temper finally flared, and his refusal was firm.

Chen Erpao had watched silently from the side, and now he understood the situation. It was just a few street punks stirring up trouble, looking to squeeze some protection money out of the stall. Maybe big businesses could afford such expenses, but how much could a small food stall like this make in a year? Every cent was hard-earned—who would willingly hand it over for nothing?