The thief jerks around. The next thing Ares sees is the flash of a black-gloved fist, but he doesn’t feel it, because he has already ducked, his own hands flexing. Muscle memory. Years of boxing training kicking in. So it would come down to this. All right. He feels something spark to life inside him—notexcitement,nothing that good, but anticipation. He wants to fight the whole world, but he’ll settle for this one man.
When he swings his first punch, hears thecrackof it against bone, his body aches with relief.
The thief staggers back but doesn’t falter. He comes barreling at Ares, and now they’re really fighting, knuckles against flesh, brute force and vicious determination. Even the bright, blunt pain of each collision is a release, so much better than the suffocating feeling Ares has been battling against alone.
“You’re not bad at that,” the thief says suddenly, appreciatively,stopping mid-fight like they’re two friends catching up over coffee.
Ares doesn’t lower his fists. For all he knows, this could be a trap. “Shut up.”
“No, for real,” the thief says. “Who taught you how to fight like that?”
Ares glowers at him. “What’s it to you?”
“It could mean a lot.” The thief nods once, as if having decided something important. “You’ve got a super solid foundation, good instincts. Not even Hongdan was this fast, and he almost made it to the finals....”
“What?”
“I should’ve picked another target, that’s my bad,” the thief says. “But you know, I couldn’t have robbed anyone else without breaking my rules.”
“You have rules for... robbing people?”
“Course I have rules.” He looks affronted by the question. “What do you think I am? Some kind of monster?”
Ares chooses not to reply to that.
“No, I don’t attack pregnant women, kids under ten, or any old people over sixty. Or anyone with dogs,” he adds. “Certainly not dogs. I could never do that, couldn’t risk hurting an innocent puppy.”
“What about cats?” Ares says dryly.
But the thief’s expression is contemplative. “Depends on the cat. They can be pretty nasty sometimes.”
Ares can feel his patience wearing thin. “Look, man, I don’t give a shit about your rules or the wallet or whatever. Take the money if you want,” he says. “But let me have the photo inside.”
The thief raises his brows and flips open the wallet, extracting the Polaroid using two gloved fingers. Ares moves to snatch it back, but the thief is faster, holding it just out of reach and examining it in a pale stream of moonlight. “Wait. I know that boy.”
Ares hears the words as if from somewhere deep underwater. He doesn’t let himself believe it. It can’t be. Too many times, he’s dared to hope, only for nothing to materialize out of it. Still, his voice wobbles over the question. “You... know him?”
“Yeah, course.” The thief rubs his jaw. “I’ve seen him around.”
The world seems to slow. He can scarcely breathe. “You’re sure it’s him?”
“Well, he’s a bit older now, isn’t he? Fifteen or sixteen or something? Smart boy. Photographic memory, no wonder why Long Ge likes to keep him around.” The thief squints off into the distance, as if trying to remember. “Started working for him, what, three years ago?”
Three years ago. That’s around how long Luke has been missing. “Where is he now?” Ares demands. He isn’t even sure if he’s speaking properly anymore; his lips feel numb, and there’s a high ringing in his ears. “Can you bring me to him?”
The thief merely extends a hand as if Ares hasn’t spoken. “I’m Sangui.”
Ares wants to slap it away. He doesn’t care what the thief is called, doesn’t care about anything except... “Where is he?” he repeats, keeping his own hands balled into fists at his sides. “Who is he with? Is he okay?”
“Now, now, don’t be in such a rush.” Sangui is studying himwith open interest. It’s a measured, evaluative look, much like how wealthy men might study the racehorses in a stable before placing their bets. Ares can practically see Sangui gauging his stamina and endurance and market value in real time. “Here’s the deal. I’d love to help you, really, nothing would make my little heart happier, butIdon’t have much of a say in the matter. It’s all up to Long Ge. And if you want something from Long Ge—well, you’ll have to fight for it.” The sharp edge of a grin. “Literally.”
“What do you mean? WhoisLong Ge?” Ares asks, though it sounds more like a plea.
Sangui’s eyes gleam. “There’s this place—we call it the Cave. You ever been to a fight club before? Or seen one in a movie?”
But it’s not the movies that Ares’s mind jumps to. It’s the vision. The one of him in the boxing ring, drawing blood. The dark room he’s never entered before.This must be it.
“I know what a fight club is,” he says. “When can I join?”
