He turned around again, trying to take it all in. The bed behind him was massive, the sheets white like clouds. There were soft lights hidden behind the ceiling walls, glowing without any bulbs. A knock tapped softly on the door. “Come in,” Miles said, voice low, unsure. A woman—no, a maid, wearing black and white. Her skin looked like porcelain, her hair tied back like in the dramas. She bowed her head slightly. “You’re awake,” she said in English, her accent crisp but warm. “Welcome to your new home, Master Wangchun.” Miles blinked. Once. Twice. “Master what?” he said. But the woman only smiled, bowed again. Miles blinked. “Right. Uh… I didn’t mean to crash here or anything. I can—uh—I’ll get out of your way once I’m better. I just don’t know how I got here.” The lady raised a brow, amused. “Master Wang ordered otherwise. He personally requested that you be given a full recovery suite. Private wing. Any medical attention you need. You are not an intruder, Mr. Wangchun. You

Miles was not sure whether leaving the mansion was the right decision. First of all, he was just seconds away from dying. Literally seconds away from being thrown into the dreaded pit. But the American saved him. Galy saved his life. Galy saved the lives of everyone in that bunker, in that deserted, smelly, horrible bunker, on that island. Galy did not stop there. He went as far as giving him special treatment. Clothing him, probably injecting him with a substance that boosted his muscles, sharpened his jawline, and even sharpened his eyesight. He pulled out the card that was handed to him. He really did not know how to use the credit card. But all he knew was that 500 million yen was a huge money. He did not know how huge it was, but he knew it was huge. He could probably use it to rent an apartment and then find a job. So Miles thought. Soon, Miles found himself in the city. In Hong Kong City. His home. His true home. Things had really changed. The best recent view of the

The drive was longer than expected. The driver would stop at certain points to either make some random calls or buy some things, which he would put in his booth. Miles did not pay attention to any of that. As a matter of fact, he was lost in a swirl of thoughts, a muddle of recent days and whispered fears. The golden card felt heavy against his thigh, a secret he wasn’t quite sure what to do with. Was it real? Or had he dreamed the whole encounter with the American? A fancy car, a man with eyes like a winter sky, offering escape with a flick of a tiny rectangle. It sounded like something out of those cheap movies the older boys used to talk about, the ones they’d heard whispers of from the city folk who came to the factories. He glanced out the window, the blur of the city lights a stark contrast to the grey stillness of the bunker. Each streetlight was a tiny firefly, each passing car a brief whoosh of the outside world, a world that felt more and more like a fever dream. How l

The driver’s hand twitched. The young man was scared, but the driver did not seem to care. “You heard the kid, Siu. Bǎ nà gāisǐ de qiāng fàngxià!” he screamed. But the man seemed to have other plans. “Hey, I will shoot him and shoot you and grab your money and sell your fucking heart, you hear me? I don’t care about him. And you. You all can die for all I care. What I care about is the dough! Tā mā de qián!” With that, the man followed his instinct. He pressed his finger against the trigger… And he pulled it, aiming at Miles. But his aim was bad. So bad that the bullet flew straight into his neighbour’s head and lodged into his forehead. Miles gasped, but was not shocked. This was a usual sight. And perhaps, even to the driver. He didn’t seem to care that he had just shot his neighbour, and the poor dude was lying on the floor, in a pool of his own blood. He raised the gun at Miles. “You huh… tell me… how… how do I become a model? Nǐmen bù huì shēngbìng, shuāilǎo huò sǐwáng.

Gary’s eyes narrowed. He remembered what his nanny told him just this morning… ***** She had stood before him, adjusting his tie, clipping his cuffs, looking fresh and youthful. “Master,” she had asked softly, “do I look pretty and young to you?” Gary was confused. He’d answered professionally. “All of the staff at the Empire are good-looking, sure. But it’s like everyone here is under thirty. Everyone looks like they were freshly plucked from the lemon tree.” She smiled. “You are right, Master. We are different. Do you know how old I am?” “Why is that important?” “I am 68 years old,” she said simply. Gary laughed it off. Scoffed. But then she stepped back, looked him in the eye. “I am one of his creations,” she said. “We do not age here. We do not get sick. We do not die. We are bound to him. And in return, we remain.” “For how long?” Gary asked. “For as long as he wills it.” “And if I don’t want this?” “Then pray your will is stronger than his, Master. Because once he se