you cry, you die. chapter 5

The ceiling fan above the counter in the tea room turned in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, cutting through the thick Bangkok afternoon heat and stirring the scent of roasted jasmine tea and old teak wood. At the counter stood Jenson, his black hair cropped short and a wide, easy smile creasing the corners of his eyes. He wiped down the polished wooden surface, humming softly to the radio playing in the background.
The bell above the door chimed, and Vic stepped inside, blinking against the sudden transition from the blazing sun of Yaowarat Road to the dim, cool sanctuary of the tea room. He looked dusty, slightly out of breath, and carrying the tense posture of a man searching for something he couldn't quite find.
"Welcome, friend," Jenson said warmly, setting down his rag. "You look like a man who has walked ten miles too many under a Bangkok sun. Sit. Let me bring you something cold before you even speak."
Without waiting for an answer, Jenson moved with practiced grace, pouring a glass of iced roselle tea—deep ruby-red, sweet, tart, and intensely refreshing—and sliding it across the counter.
Vic sank into a woven rattan chair, taking a grateful gulp. "Thanks. I... I actually need your help again, I need something."
Jenson chuckled, leaning his elbows on the counter. "Ah. Everyone in Bangkok is looking for something. Usually a lost passport, a missing shipment, or a person who promised to pay their debts. This city is a labyrinth, my friend. But fortunately for you, you have a good friend in me."
Vic narrowed his eyes slightly. "I was told there's a fixer. Someone who knows everyone and everything that happens in this city. A man named—"
Jenson raised a gentle hand, cutting him off with a knowing grin. "Do not say names aloud in a public room, even a quiet one like this. Walls have ears in the capital, especially the ones made of paper and bamboo."
He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small, old-fashioned Chinese coin, sliding it across to Vic.
"Take this coin. Walk three blocks down toward the canal until you see the shrine painted bright turquoise. Turn left down the narrow alleyway behind the noodle cart—the one where the vendor wears a red bandana. Look for a wooden shop door with no sign, just a carved dragon head above the latch. Go in, order a drink, and sit at a table with the coin on show next to your drink."
Vic stared at the coin, then up at Jenson. "And once I'm inside?"
"Inside, someone will find you," Jenson said, his smile softening into something deeply reassuring. "He will see the coin. Tell him I sent you, and that you need an answer, not a secret. He will give you what you seek—for a fair price and a good story."
Vic stood up, pocketing the small token of direction, a newfound sense of purpose replacing his exhaustion. He tossed a few baht notes onto the counter. "Keep the change, Jenson."
Jenson shook his head, pushing the bills back. "No, no. Save your money for the man. You are going to need it. Enjoy your tea, and remember—keep your eyes open on the alleyway."
He paused at a merchant’s stall. Silk, woven rugs, mirrors in carved wood. Looked like a tourist taking it all in, appreciating the local gear. Total bullshit. He was using the glass to sweep the shadows behind him, checking for a tail. Just the usual local traffic. He moved on.
Ten minutes later, he stopped by a tuk-tuk, dropping to one knee to tie a lace. Standard drill. His eyes were locked on the wing-mirror, scanning for the ghost behind him.
The mantra that had kept him breathing this long: Check. Then check again. If you've got a twitch about it, check one more time.
He hit the bright turquoise shrine, hooked a left, and spotted the noodle cart—red bandana on the vendor. Found the door with the dragon’s head, walked in, ordered a wet one, and dropped into a chair.
He pulled the coin from his pocket and stared at it.
The structure wasn't just metal; it was geometry with weight. Round outside for the heavens, square hole in the middle for the earth. Yin and Yang. The Emperor acting as the bridge between the two.
Four characters stamped around the square hole—reign title and Tongbao, universal currency, locking down balance across the four cardinal points.
And the reverse? That was a different kind of business. Amulet territory. He picked that absolute nugget of wisdom up during a riveting school history lesson. Well, to be fair, it was pissing down outside, and he simply couldn't be bothered braving the rain to bunk off.
"You have a very heavy walk for a tourist, friend," the man said softly, his voice like dry gravel rolling in a tide. "And you are looking at the crowd like a man searching for a sniper's nest."
Vic didn't flinch. He kept his eyes locked on the stranger's calm, unblinking gaze. "Jenson said to look for the man with the bruised knuckle who drinks bitter tea."
"My name is Paz," the man said, tracing the rim of Vic’s empty cup. "And in Chinatown, I see everything before it happens. The police checkpoints three sois over, the three men in civilian clothes asking about foreign passports by the pier, and the shift change at the embassy. Jenson says you are looking for a ghost, mister. Luckily for you, I know where the dead walk."
Vic narrowed his eyes, studying the fixer. No weapons, no hardware on the table—just pure, unfiltered intelligence. In Vic's line of work, that was worth more than gold.
"Talk to me, Paz," Vic said, leaning forward, his eyes locked onto the fixer across the scarred wooden table. "What's the lay of the land?"
Paz leaned back, letting out a thin curl of cigarette smoke before flashing a yellow-toothed grin. "Information don’t come cheap, friend. But I’ll give you this one for free: the Triads are ready for war. Word on the street is they’re hunting an Englishman."
Vic flagged down a passing server, ordered another tea, and waited until the waitress was well out of earshot.
"I’m glad that’s free information," Vic muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "Everyone and their blind grandmother knows the Triads are on the warpath. I was introduced to one of them the damn other day on a train."
Paz’s smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating glint as he connected the dots. "So you're the Englishman they’re looking for? I think you’re going to need a lot more than free advice, mister." The fixer slid a matchbook across the table. "Three hundred US dollars. That gets you the address of a weapons guy."
Vic stared at the matchbook, weighing the risk, the distance, and the time he didn’t have.
"Okay, here’s the deal," Vic growled, sliding a folded stack of bills halfway across the table, keeping a firm thumb on the edge. "Three hundred for the weapons address, and another three hundred the second you open your mouth about a man named Bronson. You claim you know where the dead walk—so start fucking talking."
The humid air of Chinatown clung to Vic's skin as he navigated the labyrinth of dimly lit alleyways. Years ago, operating under the British Special Air Service, his life had depended on split-second decisions and gear that never jammed. Now, civilian life hadn't dulled his instincts—it had just made them sharper.
He slipped through a beaded curtain into the cramped back room of an antique shop, where a weathered weapon fixer named Chen waited behind a scarred wooden table.
Chen didn't waste time on pleasantries. He slid a heavy lid aside to reveal compact semi-automatic pistols resting on a piece of greasy cardboard.
Vic stepped closer, his experienced eyes assessing the weapon's lines before his hands even touched one of them. He dropped the magazine with a practised click. He pressed his thumb against the follower, testing the tension of the mag clip spring. It gave way too easily—mushy and fatigued. It would likely cause a failure-to-feed after the second or third round. He locked the top slide back to inspect the barrel and internal rails. The metal was gritty, choked with decades of old carbon and neglect. Running a thumb along the ejection port, Vic found a bloom of orange decay eating into the steel. "It's pitted," Vic murmured, dropping the slide with a dry, clacking thud. "The chamber's compromised. One high-pressure round and this fucking thing blows up in my hand."
Chen nodded slowly, unfazed, and reached beneath the table to pull out a second box. He took the lid off to reveal slightly different models—older, but heavier.
Vic repeated the ritual with the exact same methodical precision. He ejected the magazine, checked the mag clip spring—stiffer this time, offering a firm, crisp resistance that promised reliable feeding. He racked the top slide, listening to the metallic slide-lock click into place. Inspecting the internals, he spotted a faint trace of rust blooming near the safety catch and a slight discolouration along the outer barrel. It wasn't pristine, but it was structurally sound. Vic worked the action a few times, letting the familiar mechanical rhythm reassure him. "Surface rust," Vic said, nodding approvingly as he slipped the magazine back home. "Not pretty, but the spring's strong and the action is true. This one will do."
As Chen began wrapping up the handgun, Vic’s eyes swept the rest of the cluttered workbench. Spotting a military-grade combat knife with a non-reflective matte finish tucked beneath a stack of old leather holsters, he reached out and tested the edge with his thumb. Right beside it sat a heavy-duty, rechargeable civilian taser with a solid, ergonomic grip.
Vic tapped the taser casing and then the handle of the combat knife. "Throw these in with the piece," Vic said, tossing a heavy leather pouch of local currency onto the scarred wood.
Chen weighed the pouch in his hand, a thin smile cracking his weathered face, and swept the lot into a canvas bag.
Next stop the market for clothing. He found a stall with designer jeans, designer t-shirts, and designer trainers. The stall holder asked Vic, “You want to try on, mister?” Vic bought the jeans, shirt, and trainers, all items in black.
Back at Jenson’s tea room, he poured the contents of the bag onto a table in a back room. Jenson looked over, squinted at the pile of dark clothes, and then watched Vic twist a 12-inch piece of wire.
“What are you playing at, making stick men?” Jenson asked, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “What's the plan, art attack? Or are you auditioning for a very low-budget ninja film?”
“Nope,” Vic answered. “This will get me back into the house at 12 Soi Sukhumvit.”
Jenson let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Right. Of course. Because a bit of bent coat hanger is all that stands between you and breaking into a high-security compound. You're proper James Bond, you are. Inspector Clouseau more like.”
“Okay, my friend,” Vic said, unfazed. “Go lock the door. If I open it using the wire, then you owe me a free meal and drinks all night.”
Jenson smirked, strutted over, and threw the deadbolt with a loud, heavy clunk. “Consider your drinks on the house, because you're about to stand out here all night looking like a right lemon.”
Vic looked at the keyhole, twisted the wire a fraction tighter, then placed it with practiced ease into the lock. He grabbed the handle, pulling the door slightly towards himself to ease the pressure, turned the wire, lifted it, gave it a subtle twist, and with a soft click, the door swung open.
Vic turned to a stunned Jenson with a smug grin. “I learned that shit watching a war movie. Colditz Castle.”
Jenson stared at the open door, then back at Vic, raising an eyebrow. “Colditz? Mate, you watched The Colditz Story and thought you were Vic Mills? You spent three weeks in Bangkok and suddenly you reckon you're an Escaping Officer planning a breakout from a German POW camp over a cup of tea. Next thing you'll be digging a tunnel under my kitchen floor with a teaspoon.”

Vic  leaned casually against the hallway wall.
“You were in the house before and found nothing?” Jenson continued  to say.  “I was, but I didn’t have time to search the place properly,” Vic answered calmly.
“And you think this time you will find it?”
“i think so." “What is it you’re looking for?” Jenson asked, eyeing him with deep suspicion.
“Not sure,” Vic replied, a faint, unreadable smirk touching his lips, “but when I see it, I will know.”