I turn toHigh School Photosnext. I’d assumed they were my dad’s, but instead I find photos of my mother: enviably, irrefutably gorgeous even then. Raven hair shorter and her face a little fuller. Somehow makes her old school uniform look stylish, her tracksuit zipped down so that it hangs off one elegant shoulder. She’s surrounded by friends in every single one, and I’m about to return the album to the cabinet when my gaze lands on a photo of her and a classmate—
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
It’s him.
The man with the scar on his cheek. Except it wasn’t yet a scar when the photo was taken, but a fresh gash, still healing. There’s a kind of awkwardness to him, sitting on the bench of a basketball court next to my mother, who’s looking somewhere beyond the frame, mouth half open as if in mid-joke, not even noticing the camera. But he clearly has; he’s staring right ahead,almost as if he can see through the lens to me right now, his face flushed. Three inches of polite distance are left between them, his body angled in her direction.
Suddenly I can hear my own blood pounding against my skull.
It’s all connected somehow. The man with the scar. My mother. Ares. The teenage boy standing by the fire. But the few pieces of information I’ve gathered float around haphazardly in my mind; separate moving points without any clear lines between them. The more I discover about the vision, the more confusing everything becomes. And there’s this hot, shaky sensation inside my stomach, the overwhelming feeling I’m missing something vital, butwhat?
The familiar chime of my WeChat notifications sounds from the other room.
I startle, my heart beating even faster as I drop the photo album and seize my phone. Ares has double texted. Well, I’m not sure it counts as a proper message—it’s a single question mark, sent almost an hour after my last message.
But it still feels like a mini victory.
this bracelet,I tell him, and send him the photo I’ve preselected just for this. It’s a selfie taken in a hotel bathroom, my hair wet from the shower, the lights turned low to enhance the shadows under my collarbones. I’m wearing my tightest tank top, posing with one hand against my cheek like I have a stylish toothache, my Van Cleef bracelet dangling around my wrist.
Then I wait.
Half an hour passes, then an hour, then two, giving me morethan enough time to search through every album for any other photos of the man. There’s only one—a school photo taken of the entire year level, with every student’s name and class printed in tiny font in the caption below. The man with the scar is standing on the farthest left, his shoulders hunched and his arms held stiffly as if he’s trying to disappear from the frame. I trace my finger over the list until I find the corresponding name.Long Ge.Carefully I extract the high school photo and hide it underneath my jewelry box, then move the photo albums back into their original place, all while Ares leaves me on delivered.
At the five-hour mark, something flashes over the screen. I click into it, triumphant, disgustingly relieved.Finally.It must be a reply from him, it has to be—
A social media alert pops up instead.
Sixty thousand people have liked your post
I can’t remember the last time I was so disappointed to be liked. Right now, it doesn’t matter if a hundred thousand people like me when Ares Yin, the boy who holds my future in his hands, can’t even be bothered to type out a reply.
“Oh mygod.” If it weren’t for the vision, this would never be a problem. I don’t obsess over boys. I don’t give them power over me, don’t even need to resist checking my phone for messages, because the temptation isn’t there to begin with. I never think about them at night, never lose my cool. I only take calculated risks, but I guess there’s a reason I keep failing my math classes.
Eventually I fall into a restless sleep with my phone on my pillow, dreaming of replies that never come and houses erupting into flames.
9
Ares
The blindfold seems like overkill.
Even after someone unties it, Ares has to squint into the darkness to get his bearings. He’d done his best to pay attention as Sangui led him through a series of twisted alleys, then deep underground, counting his own footsteps down the stairs, but otherwise, there’d be no way to tell where he is, or even what time of day it is.
A single, dying light bulb flickers above him, illuminating little except the empty boxing ring just ahead and the blood splatters on the floor.
He feels a frisson of fear. Sangui had refused to breathe a word about what to expect once they came down to the Cave, had simply grunted at him to keep walking. But whathashe walked into, exactly?
“Welcome,” Sangui says, tossing the blindfold over his shoulder, where it drops to the floor like a dead snake. “I’m sure you’re eager to get started, so I’ll keep it short. The Cave is run by Long Ge. By tradition, Long Ge will only appear at the Cavein person to congratulate the fight club’s winner—whoever wins five rounds in a row—and offer them a favor.”
“A favor?” Ares repeats, his head spinning with the possibilities.
“Just one,” Sangui tells him. “Usually the winners will ask for money, or drugs, or a job through Long Ge’s connections. Up to you.”
This is why the vision had led him here, Ares realizes. He’s almost certain of it. He can feel it deep in his gut, that he’s closer than he’s ever been before. Long Ge is the key to his brother.
“Don’t look too excited,” Sangui says. “If you want to join the Cave, there are two rules.” He holds up his hand, covered in the same black glove he’d worn last time, and lists them off. “One, do as you’re told. No matter what we tell you. And two,neverfight outside the ring. You got it?”
Dread stirs in the pit of Ares’s stomach, but he forces himself to nod.
