Page 26 of Billionaire’s Cruelty

“Just get in.” I ducked under the doorframe and followed her inside.

“I’m so glad you finally agreed to go to a hotel,” she quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I ignored her and leaned forward, speaking to the driver in my best attempt at Cantonese. “Kamsha Dai Ha.”

The driver twisted around, his weathered face shifting between me and Wendy before his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Where you going?” he asked, his tone sharp.

I repeated myself, slower this time. “Kam. Sha. Dai. Ha.”

The old man sucked his teeth and let out a sound that resembled an annoyed “hiya.” After a heavy pause, he grumbled something under his breath, then shifted the cab into gear and pulled into traffic.

“What’s his problem.” Wendy muttered, watching the city blur past the window.

“Well…” I hesitated, “The place we’re going—it’s supposed to be the most haunted building in all of Hong Kong.”

Her head snapped toward me. “What? Why?”

Before I could answer, the driver cut in, his voice gruff. “I also ask you why.”

He jabbed a finger toward the rearview mirror, his expression a mix of disbelief and concern. “You go in… you don’t come out.”

His words hung heavy in the air and I wasn’t sure if he was trying to scare us or if he genuinely believed it.

The drive only took ten minutes, but each passing second stretched unbearably long. I stole a glance at Wendy, wondering if she was rattled. She looked calm—too calm—but I couldn’t tell if that was bravado or genuine indifference.

Meanwhile, the driver quietly chanted under his breath. “O-Nei-Tou-Fat… O-Nei-Tou-Fat…” The repetitive rhythm prickled my nerves. If I remembered correctly—thanks to the endless Kung Fu movies my brothers forced me to sit through—it was a Buddhist mantra meant to ward off evil spirits. Comforting.

When the cab finally jerked to a stop, the driver didn’t bother to hide his relief. “You’re here.”

His knuckles were white against the steering wheel.

I looked out the window at the looming shadow of Kamsha Dai Ha. Even in the daylight, the building seemed to pulse with an eerie, unwelcoming energy.

“How much is it?” I asked, pulling out two one-hundred notes—more than enough to cover the fare.

“You know what? Just keep the change.”

Instead of taking the money, the driver shoved my hand away, his face pale. “I don’t want your money. If you die inside, don’t come looking for me.”

“Cheery,” Wendy quipped, because of course. She couldn’t help herself. I was beginning to realize that no matter the situation—whether it was life-threatening or just plain awkward—her instinct was always to crack a joke.

“I’m sorry.” The rasp in the driver’s voice, paired with slight tremor, sent a chill crawling up my spine. His fear wasn’t an act—it was raw, real, and contagious. The moment our doors slammed shut, he stomped on the gas, peeling away like the devil himself was at his heels.

We stood in silence, staring up at the decaying tower looming before us.

The building was as uninviting as the driver’s warning. Its once-white facade was now a patchwork of grime and neglect. The foyer’s outer walls were smeared with graffiti—some of it crude drawings of penises, others angry Chinese scrawled in blood-red paint.

“Fuck,” Wendy muttered, her voice low but sharp. “This place definitely looks haunted.”

Her already large eyes widened even further, pupils blown dark with something between awe and unease.

“You scared?” I asked, though the words barely left my throat.

She grinned. “I’m excited.”

Of course, she was.