Hong Kong

Terry had crossed a city he barely understood, among people whose language he could not speak. And yet, with her, none of it felt foreign. They had only just met, but it was as if they had lived a lifetime together in these few hours. The tangled streets, the neon lights shimmering in puddles, the weight of something unspoken between them—it wrapped around him like a spell. He followed blindly, mesmerized, as she led him deeper into the labyrinth of Hong Kong’s backstreets.

Then she stopped.

The stench of rot hung in the damp air. Weeks-old garbage clung to the concrete, but Terry’s eyes locked onto the shape before them—a body, sprawled lifeless on the ground. His breath stopped. The rotting face was unmistakable. He knew this person.

“Oh my God, is that—”

Before: 1984

"Hey Terry, there's a bird in your grill."

Terry frowned, stepping around the car. Sure enough, wedged between the metal slats of the front grille was a small, lifeless bird. Its neck had snapped on impact, its guts spilling in a grotesque tangle of red and gray. Feathers clung stubbornly to the steel, light gray streaked with black, matted by the damp morning air.

Terry stared at the tiny creature, a strange sense of unease crawling up his spine.

He found a stick and pried the body loose. With a dull thud, the stiff corpse tumbled to the pavement, lifeless as a discarded toy. He studied it for a moment longer, feeling the faintest whisper of something—pity? Guilt? Or was it just the absurdity of it all?

Behind him, laughter broke the silence.

"Hope that ain't an omen," Robert chuckled, nudging William, who shook his head, grinning.

***

The trip was business. A deal to be closed, papers to be signed. But for Terry, it was something else—a way out, even if only for a little while. His girlfriend had left him. His life felt like a series of disconnected moments, and Hong Kong was just another place to lose himself.

Robert and William, both in their forties, had families waiting for them back home. But here, in the neon-drenched chaos of the city, they were different men. This was their escape too.

Their mistake was staying at the Chungking Mansions. The moment they arrived, Robert took one look at the crumbling corridors and the endless maze of guesthouses and groaned, "What the fuck did you book for us?"

"Some Dutch guy from downtown told me to stay here," William muttered, looking just as regretful.

Terry didn’t care. He barely noticed the grime, the suffocating heat, the whispers and shouts filtering through the paper-thin walls at night. He had other things on his mind.

At first, Terry thought that this would be a short trip, one week max. Now, in week three, his suitcase held nothing but clothes he’d already worn, and the four walls of his hotel room felt smaller by the day.

His bosses had found their distractions—opium dens, brothels, places where the night stretched on forever. But Terry was alone. He had been since before the trip even began. Isolated from the rest of the world, isolated from the rest of the city, isolated from the rest of the world. Now all he had were the neon streets outside his tiny window that he was lucky to have that looked at the main street. 

Every night, he sat there, watching the world below. He watched club-goers strut down the streets in tight-knit groups, their laughter carrying up to him even though he couldn’t understand their words. He listened to their tones instead—excited, carefree, electric. He would sometimes go down to the floor right above the retail section. He watched the women of the night drift between streetlights, calling over potential clients. More than once, he spotted his bosses among them.

 For three weeks, this was his ritual. Watching. Imagining.

Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to step into that world, to push through the doors of those clubs, to let himself get lost in the energy of it all. But the idea unnerved him. He didn’t speak the language. Would sitting in a packed bar, surrounded by voices he couldn’t understand, really feel any less lonely than being here in silence?

In the end, he was a foreigner. The out-of-place one.

So he went to sleep each night to the sound of nothing.

Until one night, he saw her.

During

She moved through the street with quiet confidence—shoulder-length curls, big hoop earrings, a leather jacket slung over her frame. She wasn’t in a rush. She wasn’t with anyone. Dressed for a casual night, yet something about her felt intentional.

And she was heading to the bar. Alone.

Terry sat up. His mind raced. He paced the room, running through every possible scenario. The what-ifs stacked against each other, climbing higher, threatening to pin him down before he even had the chance to move.

But he had seen which bar she went into—the little one, just beneath the glowing Sony sign. He hesitated a moment longer. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled on a shirt, something casual to match her. And he stepped out the door. What else did he have to lose. 

He pushed through the dense, suffocating corridors of the market, the air thick with the mingling scents of spices, sweat, and something metallic that never quite left his nostrils. The narrow walkways of the Chungking Mansions felt more like veins, pulsing with bodies moving in every direction. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering weakly, casting everything in a jaundiced glow. The walls were lined with tiny stalls—jewelers selling fake gold, tailors haggling over polyester suits, men with stacks of radios whispering, "Good price, my friend." It was as if the whole world had been crammed into this decaying monolith, but instead of feeling connected, Terry had never felt more alone.

As he maneuvered through the crowd, he spotted Robert hunched over a Mahjong table outside a cramped, grease-stained restaurant. Smoke curled from a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, his brow furrowed as he calculated his next move.

“Terry, hey, Terry!” Robert waved, his voice cutting through the murmur of the market.

Terry hesitated but stepped closer.

“You seen William lately? Haven’t heard from him in a few days.”

“A few days?” Terry frowned. “And you’re just bringing this up now?”

Robert exhaled sharply, tapping the Mahjong tile between his fingers. “Didn’t think it was something to worry about. You know him—he’s fallen asleep with a prostitute before, or maybe he’s riding out some high.” He hesitated, eyes darkening. “But this time… I don’t know. Feels different.”

The concern in Robert’s voice unsettled Terry. He had always known William to be reckless, but something about the way Robert said it gnawed at him.

“I’ll look for him tomorrow. I gotta go.”

Robert barely looked up, placing his tile down. As Terry turned away, he heard him mutter to the table, “Holy shit, he’s going out.”

Terry plunged back into the tide of bodies, shouldering past men speaking in hurried Cantonese, Bangladeshi merchants shouting deals over their counters, the hum of different languages crashing together like waves against rock. The air was heavy, stale—too many people breathing in too small a space. But he had only one thought: her.

Finally, he broke free from the Mansions and into the city’s night. The neon spilled across his face as he made his way to the bar.

Inside, he slid onto a stool, pointed at a Budweiser, and gave the bartender a thumbs-up. He couldn’t communicate, so symbols would have to do. The bartender nodded, cracking open the bottle and sliding it across the counter.

A few seats down, she sat, talking with the bartender, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her glass. Her laughter was light, effortless. Terry watched her, stealing glances between sips of his beer, his stomach twisting with something he refused to name.

For all he knew, she was just having a casual conversation. Or maybe she was professing her love to the bartender, and he was accepting it.

Don’t be stupid, he told himself. She’s not interested in you.

To distract himself, he turned to the TV mounted on the wall. A news report flashed on the screen. Photos of white men, all foreigners, their faces lined up in grainy stills. Behind them, blurred police tape cordoned off dark alleyways. The characters on the screen meant nothing to him, just an indecipherable stream of symbols.

Terry furrowed his brow. That could be anything.

Probably just some other unlucky expats who got caught up in something.

He exhaled, shook his head, and went back to his beer.

One beer. Then two.

Terry glanced at her. She was watching him.

He took another sip—three beers now. He hated Budweiser. Always had. But here he was, downing it like water. He looked around, then back at her. She was still watching. Laughing.

She knew. She knew he wasn’t a Budweiser guy.

This stupid beer was expensive, too, putting a noticeable dent in his pocket, and it tasted like piss.

He waved at the bartender, pointed at a San Miguel, and gave a thumbs-up. A quick swap. He took a sip—cheaper, but still beer. He looked over. She was watching him again, her chin resting in her hands.

He took another sip.

Yuck.

His face twisted involuntarily, lips pursing as the bitterness coated his tongue. God, that’s even worse. It had to be skunked. Had to be. No way this was normal.

He looked over again.

She was laughing.

Oh no. My window is closing.

Before he could salvage his dignity, she slid into the seat beside him, nudging his shoulder. “Not a San Miguel guy either?”

“You could tell?” He smirked, attempting to recover.

That was it. The ice was broken.

The two of them fell into conversation, the kind that moves effortlessly, meandering through random topics like a lazy river. She told him about how she learned English—something about an academy, her father having worked in the British colonial government. He asked if she ever felt out of place.

“All the time,” she admitted. She spoke of summers in India with her father, of the disconnect she always felt—a bird in a cage, stuck in a place that was never really hers.

The more she talked, the deeper he fell.

They talked about pets, politics, travel, education. How Budweiser was objectively overrated. What it felt like to be a foreigner in a country that never truly belonged to you. How much she hated the British. 

Terry barely noticed time slipping through his fingers, until it hit him—he never even asked for her name.

“Just call me Maggie,” she said with a sly smile.

It sounded perfect.

“Want to get something to eat?”

Back inside the Mansions, she glanced around, then smirked at him. “So what exactly are you doing staying here?”

It was then that he told her about his job, about the two managers he was stuck with.

And then, almost without thinking, he asked:

“I meant to ask—have you seen William? No one’s heard from him in a few days.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think I would know if I’d seen some random American in the past few days?”

“Fair point,” he admitted.

Even in her most sarcastic moments, he found her utterly charming.

They grabbed some bao buns from a vendor tucked away in the labyrinth of the Mansions. Terry hesitated, then offered, “Want to see my room?”

Spending the night was off the table—he hadn’t even kissed her yet. He had only just learned her name an hour ago. But if there was a time to kiss her, maybe it was now but maybe not yet. 

But still, he didn’t want this moment to end.

When they got upstairs, she took one look around and smirked.

“It’s tiny.”

“It’s not about the size. It’s about the quality,” Terry said, throwing himself onto the bed.

She glanced at the cracked walls, the dim light bulb flickering overhead. “Then you have neither.” She turned toward him, her expression unfazed. “It’s claustrophobic. Like a jail cell.”

A noise from the next room made them both pause.

Robert’s room.

A drunken voice bellowed, “Hello, my baby, hello, my darling!”

Terry turned just in time to see Robert stumble into view, wearing nothing but sagging white underwear, swinging a bottle like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. Terry had seen Robert in bad shape before—but this? This was a new low.

Robert twirled toward the window, mid-dance, before catching sight of them. He grinned, the kind of grin a man gives when he knows something you don’t.

“Terry! So glad you found someone.” His words slurred, but there was something sharp beneath the drunkenness.

“Robert… you good?” Terry asked, stepping forward cautiously.

Robert took a long, unsteady breath. His eyes, bleary but oddly focused, locked onto Terry.

“Have you ever felt like nothing matters?” he asked, voice distant, detached. “I have fucked, sucked, snorted, and drank every whore, drug, and liquor in this godforsaken city.” His words tumbled out, a confession to no one. “William’s dead. I know it. My wife is leaving me, taking the kids. We’ve been here for weeks because I kept sabotaging the deal. I didn’t want to go home and face it.”

Terry didn’t know what to say.

“This was supposed to be my nirvana,” Robert whispered, the bottle slipping from his fingers. “And yet… I only feel worse.”

He turned, took one last look at Terry, then said, “Take care, Terry. And I’m sorry.”

And with that, Robert stepped out of the window.

Terry ran forward just in time to see Robert’s body slam against an air-conditioning unit before tumbling down like a ragdoll. He hit the ground in a lifeless sprawl, limbs spread like a broken starfish.

Terry went numb.

He turned back toward Maggie, expecting shock, horror—something.

But she stood there, completely still. Expressionless.

Like she had seen this before.

Damn. She’s tough, he thought. Even in the middle of the most horrific moment of his life, his mind was still focused on her.

Maybe now was the time to kiss her.

He stepped toward her, fumbling for words, unsure how to process any of this. And then, she spoke.

“I think I’ve seen William.”

Terry blinked. “What?”

“A few days ago,” she said casually. “He came to the bar. We had a conversation. Then we went for a walk.”

Terry’s thoughts spun.

The radio in Robert’s room. Those English names. The news reports.

Maggie… knew William?

No—more than that. She went on a walk with him?

None of this was adding up.

“I’ll take you to where I saw him last,” she said, grabbing his hand. “We should go now. The police are going to come up here, and when they do, they’ll assume you pushed him out that window.”

Terry hesitated.

“It would be the easiest explanation,” Maggie continued. “Two white foreigners arguing. Makes sense.”

That logic slid in too easily.

Terry swallowed.

It did make sense.

He let her lead him out of the Mansions.

After

The rain poured, heavy and unrelenting. Maggie had led Terry to an alley not far from the Mansions, the neon lights barely reaching into its depths.

And there, in the filth and the dark, was William.

What was left of him.

His body was a grotesque mess—hacked up, sliced and diced, rat bites carved into his skin. Garbage clung to the open wounds, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, guts spilling onto the pavement. His arms were stiff, frozen mid-reach.

Unceremonious. Forgotten.

Terry stared.

No words came.

Not for Robert.

Not for the bird.

Not for William.

Before he could even ask why Maggie knew exactly where William’s body was, she kissed him.

And just like that—he forgot.

Lips locked in the rain, a magical night in Hong Kong.

For a fleeting moment, it was perfect.

She was perfect.

This beautiful stranger. This whirlwind romance. This bond that felt like it would last forever.

“Maggie,” Terry murmured when they pulled apart, breathless. “That was… magical. This was one of the best nights of my life. The best night of my life.”

Drunk on Budweiser, on skunked San Miguel, on numbness. His mind flickered to the future—maybe he would stay. Maybe he would get a job here but why did she know where William was?

Maggie smiled.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she said softly.

Then, she pulled out the blade and shoved it deep between his ribs.

Terry gasped, the sharp, burning pain cutting through his drunken haze. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering as the warmth of his own blood spilled down his stomach.

She pulled the knife out.

Then shoved it back in.

And again.

And again.

“Maggie—what the fuck—” he choked.

“Terry,” she sighed, almost affectionately. “I liked you. But you ignored all the signs.”

The blade twisted.

“You saw the reports.”

Another stab.

“You heard the radio.”

Another.

“You watched me. Alone. Night after night.”

The blood poured from his body, mixing with the rain.

“You heard my stories.”

He tried to move, tried to fight, but his limbs were failing him.

“You had so many chances to get out,” she whispered. “But you didn’t.”

Her voice was soft, almost pitying.

“Your desire to raid my culture blinded you.” She leaned in close, her lips by his ear. “I don’t like your kind. That’s why I’ve enjoyed slaughtering you and your people.”

Terry’s vision blurred.

The world spun.

The news reports.

The Slasher of Chungking Mansions.

Oh God, he was just another one.

In the end, Terry would be found next to William—neck gouged open, stiff as a rock, his body torn apart. Just another nameless foreigner butchered in the dark.

No identity.

No proper burial.

No peace.

A bad omen.

Isolated in death.