The sharp, piercing sound of a bell, coupled with the clamor of market hawkers and the rattling of roller shutters, created a cacophony that shattered my sleep. I groggily reached for my phone and saw a bank notification—15 million yuan had been credited to my account. Another notification showed a missed call from Boss Wei.
I realized he must have transferred the money after indulging himself last night. It was already late, and I'd been sleeping soundly, so I hadn't noticed. I returned his call, but unsurprisingly, he didn't pick up.
After hanging up, I got out of bed and went to freshen up. The bathroom was clean and orderly, yet the old-fashioned fixtures evoked a sense of nostalgia, as though I had stepped back into the 1980s, into the worn-down house of my childhood.
When I finished, I leaned against the window. The sunlight was blinding, and the world outside was alive with chatter, the overlapping voices weaving a chaotic spell that unsettled me.
A rhythmic clicking of high heels drew my attention. I turned to see Xiao Mi, dressed in local attire. She looked like a native Burmese, though I'd never encountered a Burmese woman as stunning as her.
"Did the money arrive?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yes, I'll transfer it to you."
Taking my phone, I began the transfer. My daily limit was five million, so I couldn't send it all at once. After completing the transaction, Xiao Mi left to discuss something with Qian Lao Wu downstairs.
Left alone, I glanced around the room at the dozen or so men idling there, their cold expressions reflecting a readiness for orders.
Soon, Qian Lao Wu rolled down the shutters and approached me. "Zhao Fei," he said, "I've made contact with the Russians. The deal will go down in Mandalay. You and Xiao Mi can relax in Yangon until I get back."
I nodded silently, watching as he led the men out through the back entrance. As the last of them disappeared, I found myself hoping the deal would go smoothly. These transactions often ended in betrayal or arrests. But it was his path to tread—I wouldn't interfere.
Xiao Mi, standing beside me, broke the silence. "Yangon is beautiful. Let's spend a day exploring. Once Lao Wu's deal is done, we'll head back and wait for Qian Guang's next visit to Myanmar."
"No," I said firmly. "Absolutely not."
She met my gaze, her eyes brimming with restrained hatred, a hatred so intense it was almost terrifying. I knew what she was contemplating. But no, Qian Guang couldn't die—not yet. If he did, my foundation in Ruili would crumble, and Ma Lan wasn't yet strong enough to take control. Compared to Qian Guang, she was still far too lacking.
Xiao Mi's voice trembled with anger. "Have you forgotten what he did to me? I haven't. I want him dead. I want his life now."
I grabbed her by the neck, leaning in close. "Not now. Absolutely not. Listen to me. Don't disrupt my plans. Understand?"
Her tears fell silently as she glared at me, defiance burning in her eyes. I knew she was grappling with the decision, but I wouldn't yield. She couldn't act—not yet.
Defeated, she lowered her head. "When?" she whispered. "Give me a time. When can I see him die before me?"
"I don't know," I replied. "When the time is right… we'll wait."
At that moment, Zhao Kui and Wang Gui descended the stairs. They seemed puzzled by the tension in the room but said nothing.
"Fei Ge," they called.
"Get us a car," I instructed. "We're going to explore Yangon today."
They nodded and left quickly. After some time, they returned with an old Toyota. We climbed in, and the car rumbled out of the Chinese community, heading toward the city.
"Fei Ge, what happened last night?" Wang Gui asked.
Staring out the window, I replied, "Ran into Shou Hou and Chen Xi. Played them for fools and made them spend three million euros on worthless material."
The two men chuckled, and Zhao Kui remarked, "Fei Ge, those two aren't exactly saints. Messing with them like that is bound to invite retaliation."
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. "We're in Myanmar. What's there to fear? They're as powerless here as we are."
Zhao Kui shook his head. "Fei Ge, that kind of place—you need an invitation to get in. Do you think they weren't brought there by someone? Liu Qiang has his own network in Myanmar. Do you think they don't?"
His words gave me pause. Zhao Kui was meticulous and experienced—a seasoned soldier. But as I scanned the streets outside, there was no sign of trouble. "Maybe," I conceded. "But it doesn't matter. It's in the past now."
"Fei Ge," Wang Gui suggested, "let's visit the Shwedagon Pagoda. Pray to Buddha for blessings—maybe a few hundred million to spend?"
I chuckled and nodded. The car headed toward the pagoda, arriving shortly after. We parked and walked toward the golden spire, its radiance a testament to the 7,000 kilograms of gold used in its construction. The Burmese truly revered their faith.
Inside, we bought tickets and quietly observed young monks chanting blessings. Bowing before the Buddha, I made no material requests. Instead, I silently prayed for my mother's health, Xuan Ling's eternal happiness, and peace for the small, beautiful world I envisioned.
Finished, I turned to find Zhao Kui and Wang Gui whispering irreverently, asking for wealth and women. Shaking my head, I ignored them. Nearby, Xiao Mi stared coldly at the Buddha statue, her hatred evident.
As we exited the temple, a young mainland tourist approached—a man in his twenties. He told us he'd been scammed and warned us to be cautious.
I thanked him but kept my distance, not wanting to linger. However, he persisted, eventually asking for a ride back to his hotel, claiming he couldn't afford a cab.
Seeing no harm, I agreed and asked where he was staying. He explained he was backpacking and lodging near a suburban train station to save money and ensure easy access to Mandalay.
It seemed inconvenient, but since he was already in the car, we obliged. Following his directions, we drove for half an hour, the cityscape growing increasingly sparse. The lack of people and buses unsettled me.
"Is this really the train station?" I asked.
"Of course," he replied. "Myanmar's train stations are run-down. We're almost there."
Yet the absence of tracks or buses felt wrong. Glancing at the dilapidated buildings and shadowy figures smoking nearby, I realized this was no train station.
"Stop the car," I ordered.
Wang Gui complied, and without hesitation, I dragged the man from the vehicle. "You lied to me. This isn't a train station—it's a slum. Who are you?"
His face darkened, and he suddenly drew a gun, aiming it at me. "Don't move. Get back in the car."
My blood ran cold. We'd fallen into a trap.