Monster Hunter: Broke to Boss

The air in Xuan Street, a crowded borough on the outskirts of New Xi'an, was thick with the scent of fried oil, wet pavement, and bad tempers.

"LEO!"

The guttural bellow of Master Chu, the round-bellied tyrant of Golden Pot Diner, echoed through the narrow alley like a firecracker in a tin can. “You deaf fool! I said Mr. Prann’s order is ready! Get your lazy legs moving!”

Leo Kim blinked, half chewing on the straw of a bubble tea he hadn't paid for yet. “I heard you the first five times, old man.”

Master Chu's face turned a deeper red beneath his sweat-glazed bald head. “Don’t 'old man' me, you punk. Last time I sent you to that customer, you nearly broke his jaw!”

Leo groaned, slamming his drink down on the counter. “He tried to cheat me! Said the chicken was too cold and refused to pay. I don’t work for free.”

“You won’t work at all if you keep this up!” Chu snapped. “You bring your temper into my business again and you’re out! This time, you go, you apologize, you smile, you bow if you must. Got it?”

Leo scoffed. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think about rent instead,” Chu muttered. “Idiot’s still two weeks late.”

Leo snorted, grabbing the plastic orange bag with the steaming meal. He slapped on his faded cap with a crooked logo of a roasted chicken giving a thumbs-up and headed for the back door where his scooter was parked.

As he straddled the rusting blue scooter and shoved the key in, Master Chu’s voice rang out again.

“And if you punch another customer, I’ll call the cops on YOU myself!”

Leo rolled his eyes and revved the engine. “No promises. But I’ll try to behave.”

Chu grumbled something in Cantonese and disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging behind him with a final squeak.

Twenty Minutes Later

The roads buzzed with traffic and irritation. Leo’s scooter coughed its way through New Xi'an’s crammed streets, past flickering neon signs and morning crowds. His fingers gripped the handlebars tightly as he weaved through a tight curve and cursed under his breath when a luxury car nearly clipped him.

By the time he arrived at Jinlong Towers, a twenty-story residential building, his hands were numb from the wind and his ears were ringing from all the honks.

He parked and looked up at the towering grey structure.

“Sixteenth floor? Really?” he muttered. “All this for a plate of chicken and rice to some hungover jackass. Great.”

He took a deep breath, slapped both cheeks to stay awake, grabbed the orange nylon bag, and jogged toward the entrance—only to skid to a halt.

A small crowd of four loitered near the double glass doors.

They weren’t just any loiterers.

Leather jackets, cigarette smoke curling lazily from two of them, and dead eyes that said they had nothing to lose. The kind of men whose shoes you avoided stepping on in dark alleys.

Leo clenched the takeout bag tighter against his chest.

The one in front, towering over the rest, had a wicked scar slashed across his cheek. Scarface, as Leo instinctively labeled him, squinted when he saw him.

“You delivering something, Chicken Boy?” Scarface asked, his tone dripping with boredom and threat.

“Just food,” Leo said, voice neutral.

“Then scram,” Scarface snapped. “This ain’t your business.”

Leo took a step forward anyway. “My business is in there. Sixteenth floor.”

“Did you not hear him?” said a thinner thug with a snake tattoo curling up his neck. “We said scram.”

Leo held his ground. “And I said I’ve got an order to deliver. Move.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then, they all burst into laughter like a bar crowd hearing a drunk joke.

Scarface stepped forward, hand landing heavy on Leo’s shoulder. “Kid, you know who we are?”

Leo looked at the hand, then at Scarface. “Did your parents not tell you who you are before they dumped you?”

Silence.

Tattoo Guy stopped laughing. Scarface’s jaw clenched. The grip on Leo’s shoulder tightened just enough to sting.

“You’ve got a mouth,” Scarface muttered. “You won’t have it long.”

He flicked his fingers.

Tattoo Guy stepped forward, cracking his knuckles, his grin all teeth. “You messed with the wrong people, chicken boy. You got balls, I’ll give you that. Let’s see if they break as easy as your bones.”

Leo started backing up slightly. “Look, man, it’s too early for this. I’ve had one tea today, and—”

Then the man said it.

“You think you're tough, huh? Probably the kind who cries at night about not having a mommy to pay rent.”

That did it.

The words hit harder than intended, digging under Leo’s skin. His jaw ticked.

He didn’t have a mother.

Not anymore.

And he sure as hell didn’t cry.

Leo’s vision tunneled for a second. He didn’t think. His body moved.

Crack!

His fist connected squarely with Tattoo Guy’s nose in a meaty crunch. Blood exploded from the thug’s nostrils as his head snapped back.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Tattoo Guy stumbled, hands flying to his face as he yelled in pain, “You motherfu—!”

Leo didn’t wait.

He dropped the bag safely to the ground and lunged, grabbing the guy by the collar and slamming him against the wall.

Scarface roared and charged, but Leo spun and ducked just in time, narrowly avoiding a blow aimed at his head.

Leo backed up, blood pumping in his ears. He wasn’t winning this. He needed to run.

But before he could make a break for it, a low growl escaped Scarface.

“You’re dead.”

Leo didn’t get the chance to reply.

BAM!

A fist slammed into the side of his head, stars burst in his vision, and the world tilted sideways. Another blow caught him in the stomach. He gasped, collapsing onto the pavement like a sack of bricks.

His ribs screamed. His arm felt heavy. He saw blurry shoes moving around him and heard jeering voices, but they grew distant.

"Damn. Chef Chu’s gonna kill me."