Chapter 106: The Elf Reappears

“I’ve found the person who killed the boss,” Gui Dong said, his voice utterly flat.

“What? You found him? Where are you?” Upon hearing this, Yan Xu’s eyes lit up, and his tone grew excited.

“In a fishing village near Saigon.”

“Then bring him back immediately.”

“I found him, but he’s already dead.”

“He’s dead? Was it you?” Yan Xu’s voice changed, suspicion tinging his words.

“No. When I found him, he was already stuffed in a sack and sunk in the sea. One of my men has a cousin from that village—he saw the deed being done.”

“Do you know who did it?” Yan Xu’s brow furrowed deeply. The death of that addict was clearly a silencing—exactly as Yan Xu suspected. Things weren’t so simple. There must be a deeper plot behind all this. The most suspicious were Bai Fenqiang and Niu Jingquan; right now, they were vying with Bald Qiang for leadership of the triad. With Bald Qiang gone, their chances would increase significantly.

“Not yet, but I have a lead,” Gui Dong replied.

“Come back immediately. This is bigger than you can handle. We need to discuss our next move.” Yan Xu understood the gravity of the situation. Whoever killed Bald Qiang was not someone Gui Dong could confront alone.

“I can’t come back yet. I’ve just uncovered something and need to confirm it. If it’s true, we’ll know exactly who ordered the addict to kill the boss,” Gui Dong refused without hesitation.

——— Section Break ———

Lok Kok Road, a street in the district of Wan Chai and Causeway Bay, had arisen from land reclamation. Back in the 1920s and 30s, it was a renowned red-light district and a favorite haunt for sailors from all over the world. In the 1940s, the Japanese designated it as a pleasure district, a center for comfort stations. During the Korean War, it became the playground for American soldiers. Even now, it remained one of the busiest streets in all of Hong Kong.

These days, after editing his film, Yan Xu would return here to drown his sorrows. The release date for “Mansion No. 1” was set, tangled with major companies like Golden Harvest. The date was fixed; it could not be changed.

Now, with Bald Qiang’s murder, the usual practice would be for the syndicate to send someone to take over his venues, or for other factions to divide up his territory and businesses. Not to mention the Baizhan Film Company—a veritable golden goose—was at stake.

But the syndicate was in the midst of a critical power struggle. Those who had supported Bald Qiang were forced to choose sides anew. Every faction tread carefully; seizing Bald Qiang’s territory could strengthen one’s hand, but failure could spell ruin. The many hungry eyes within the syndicate created a rare and precarious balance.

Taking advantage of this, Ji Mao, Bald Qiang’s right-hand man, consolidated his position in the venues and territories Bald Qiang left behind. Even if he couldn’t hold all the turf, he could at least carve out a place for himself to survive.

With Ji Mao in charge of the venues, company affairs fell to Yan Xu, suddenly adding to his burdens. Several productions required his coordination, and he still had to find time to finish post-production on his own film—a labor of love, crucial to his future, demanding his utmost attention.

Yan Xu was always grateful for Bald Qiang’s mentorship. Without his support, Yan Xu would never have achieved such success. What surprised him was the mark left in the depths of this body’s soul—not mere gratitude, but a profound brotherhood.

The grief over Bald Qiang’s death welled up from his soul. Only by working tirelessly and drinking himself numb could Yan Xu find relief from this sorrow.

“Gulp, gulp, gulp.” Parched from last night’s drinking, the first thing Yan Xu did upon opening his eyes was grab the glass on his bedside table and gulp down the now-cold water.

He let out a heavy belch, rubbed his aching temples, and felt marginally better.

Glancing around his bedroom, Yan Xu frowned slightly. Last night was a blur; he only remembered that he’d finished post-production on “Mansion No. 1,” sent it for review at the Hong Kong film board, and, suddenly relaxed, had gone to a bar and drunk heavily. How he returned home was a blank.

This time, Yan Xu had been ruthless in his editing. Compared to the original, he’d increased the bloody scenes but cut back significantly on nudity. There were no explicit nude shots; any required scenes were limited to bare backs or side profiles, with all explicit shots removed.

After years of development, Hong Kong’s film censorship system had matured, moving past its initially harsh phase, softened by filmmakers’ protests and suggestions. Now it was relatively lenient. Category III films were mainly for nudity or pornography, while violent movies had been largely excluded. If his earlier film “The Judge of the Taxi” were submitted now, it likely wouldn’t be classified as Category III.

“Mansion No. 1” was aiming for Category II. Though labeled unsuitable for children, it was open to viewers thirteen and up, and even younger children could watch with parental guidance. This would attract a broad audience, especially teenagers—core moviegoers.

Yan Xu knew that in a few years, the rating system would become even more detailed, with Category II divided into IIA and IIB. His film, while escaping Category III for now, would likely land in IIB, requiring parental guidance even for teens. After 1997, it would not escape being cut or classified as Category III.

Still groggy, Yan Xu got out of bed, stretching his stiff body until his neck gave a satisfying crack.

He quickly stripped off his clothes, opened the wardrobe, and took a fresh pair of neatly folded underwear from the drawer, tossing the used pair into the trash.

As a single man—especially a busy one—housework was a constant challenge. Living alone in such a large apartment and rarely home, hiring a live-in helper was impractical. So he outsourced cleaning to a service company, which regularly sent staff to clean and wash his clothes.

But for underwear, he felt awkward handing them over to the cleaning ladies. Instead, he bought plenty, changed often, and simply threw the used ones away. At his current income, the cost was negligible.

“Crash!”

“Ah!”

The first sound was Yan Xu opening the bathroom door; the second was a woman’s shriek from inside.

Never in his wildest dreams did Yan Xu expect to find someone—someone very familiar—inside his own bathroom.

Even more mortifying, the woman was sitting on the toilet, her pants pulled down to her knees.

From his vantage point, he could clearly see the black lace of her underwear pressed against her pants, the flawless white of her exposed thighs, and at the juncture between them, a shadow that made his breath quicken.

The woman’s posture was awkward, but Yan Xu’s own state was hardly better. About to shower, he wore nothing but the fresh underwear in his hand—no other scrap of clothing.

Worse, as a man in the early hours, his body was in its natural, vigorous state. Faced with her whiteness and that tantalizing shadow, something stirred and strained, pointing straight at the woman’s face like a compass needle.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know—” Flustered by the scene, Yan Xu hurried to explain, but before he could finish, the woman—blushing furiously on the toilet—cut him off.

“Get out! Now!” Her trembling voice had lost all its usual composure.

Slamming the bathroom door, Yan Xu dashed back to his room, abandoning his shower. He quickly dressed and sat stiffly on the sofa in the living room, feeling awkward.

His body was tense, and his gaze kept drifting toward the bathroom. The image he’d just seen replayed in his mind—so vivid, so blood-stirring. He’d nearly glimpsed the ultimate mystery hidden beneath her hair.

It seemed every time he met this woman, something embarrassing happened—last time, she’d gotten drunk at her place; now, the roles were reversed.

A long while passed before there was movement in the bathroom. The door, closed by Yan Xu, slowly opened.

The woman emerged, now fully dressed in her usual stylish, slightly British-inspired fashion: a loose, plaid short-sleeved shirt, baggy black pants, yellow flat boat shoes on her bare feet, and her sleek hair styled in wavy curls that added a touch of maturity to her otherwise lively outfit. She was none other than Maggie Weng, missing for several months.

“You—” Their eyes met, both showing traces of embarrassment. They spoke at the same time, their words hanging in the thickening air. (To be continued...)