Kingsman's Return

Downtown Los Angeles, a backstreet in the old district.

The midday sun blazed down on the ground, baking everything mercilessly. The air was thick with heat waves and the smell of car exhaust. Adam Walker gripped the handles of his rickshaw, body bent forward, waiting for customers at the busiest intersection of the old district. His white T-shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his body and outlining his solid muscle. The cuffs were frayed, but he couldn't bear to buy a new one—every penny had to be saved.

"Hey, Walker! Come here!"

Across the street, a fat man in a floral shirt and a cigar in his mouth waved at him. That was his boss, Tony Moretti—the notoriously stingy contractor in the old district who specialized in exploiting workers without status or connections.

Adam pulled the rickshaw and ran over: "Mr. Moretti, what's the matter?"

Tony pulled a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket, licked his finger, counted out a few, and handed them to Adam: "This month's wages."

Adam took the money, frowning. He counted—three hundred and twenty dollars.

"Mr. Moretti, we agreed on four hundred dollars this week. Why is it eighty short?"

Tony exhaled a puff of cigar smoke in Adam's face, his tone casual: "Short? What do you mean short? You broke a wheel last week. Don't you need money to fix it? I fronted it for you, so now I'm deducting it. Got a problem?"

Adam's fist clenched.

That wheel had worn down naturally. It wasn't his fault at all. But on this street, reasoning with Tony was useless. Tony had several thugs working for him, specifically to deal with workers who didn't comply.

"Tony, don't go too far!"

A rough voice came from behind. A burly Black man with a heavy beard strode over. He was Adam's only friend at the rickshaw stand—Jerome Washington. Jerome had been pulling rickshaws on this street for five years. He had a reputation for having a bad temper, but also for being fiercely loyal.

"I saw Walker's wheel. It wore out. You didn't fix it. How much of his money have you been skimming every month? You think we're blind?"

Tony's flabby face twitched. He glared at Jerome: "Jerome, what business is it of yours? You want to get fired too?"

Jerome rolled up his sleeves, revealing his thick forearms: "Try me. I know people in the union. If you lay a hand on me, I'll make sure your rickshaw stand gets shut down. You'd better give him back that eighty dollars today, or I'm not letting this go."

Tony's expression changed. Jerome wasn't someone to mess with. The guy was popular at the stand. If things really got out of hand, the other rickshaw pullers would join in too.

Just as the atmosphere was about to explode, a hand pressed down on Jerome's shoulder.

"Forget it, Jerome."

Adam's voice wasn't loud, but it was firm. He pulled Jerome back, positioning himself between him and Tony.

Jerome's eyes widened as he looked at him: "Forget it? You're letting him deduct your money again? Walker, are you stupid?"

Adam lowered his head, his voice even softer: "Forget it, really. I don't want to cause trouble for you."

"Cause trouble for me?" Jerome stomped his foot in frustration. "I'm standing up for you, and you tell me to forget it? What is wrong with you—"

He looked at Adam's calm face, stopped mid-sentence, and swallowed his words.

He knew what Adam was thinking. Adam was the kind of person who never wanted to burden others. He could tolerate being bullied himself, but if his friends got into trouble because of him, he would feel guilty for life.

Jerome sighed, lowered his hand, and patted Adam on the shoulder. His tone shifted from anger to resignation: "Walker, you're a good guy... but you're too honest. People will walk all over you for your whole life if you keep this up."

Adam said quietly, "Thank you, Jerome."

"Don't thank me." Jerome shook his head and turned to leave. After two steps, he looked back and added, "If you ever change your mind, if you ever want to stand up for yourself, tell me. I'll have your back."

Adam watched his back and said nothing.

He pulled his rickshaw back to the corner, squatted by the roadside, and took out an old wallet from his pocket. He put today's wages inside, then opened the wallet's inner compartment. Inside was a small sticky note with a number written on it.

Five thousand three hundred twenty-one dollars.

That was everything he had saved over three years by skimping on everything—he never bought new clothes, never ate out, only ate two cheap fast-food meals a day.

Because he had a plan.

He flipped the note over. On the other side was written: "Grace's birthday gift—Tiffany silver bracelet, five thousand four hundred dollars."

Seventy-nine dollars short. One more week of work, and he'd have enough.

Just then, a taxi pulled up in front of him.

The door opened, and a young woman stepped out. She was wearing a Chanel dress and carrying a Hermès Birkin bag. As she emerged from the taxi, she wrinkled her nose, as if even the air on this street felt cheap to her.

"Hey, rickshaw. How much to Wilshire Boulevard?"

Adam looked up and froze.

Lucy Miller. Grace's younger cousin.

"Are you... Adam?" Lucy frowned, leaned in for a closer look, then broke into an exaggerated smile. "Oh my God, it really is you! What are you doing pulling a rickshaw out here?"

Adam was silent for a moment. "Get in."

Lucy snorted, sat down, and crossed her legs.

The rickshaw started moving slowly.

"So," Lucy said from behind, her tone lazy, "did you know my cousin divorced you?"

Adam's hands tightened violently on the handles. He stopped and turned around: "What did you say?"