Page 11 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“Nothing personal,” I said, as if the cliché could somehow distance me from the act.

The sound of the gunshot echoed in the room, a final punctuation to the grim narrative of the evening. His body slumped, a life extinguished in an instant, and I felt that familiar emptiness settle in my chest.

“Clean this up,” Ba commanded, his voice cutting through the aftermath. Alex moved to obey without protest, accustomed to the shadows we cast.

I turned on my heel and walked away, leaving behind the blood, the tools, and the remnants of another soul lost to the streets of San Francisco.

Just another night for Nathan Fangs Zhou.

Chapter Six: Abby

Turns out that you can’t scream at your handler when he annoys you.

I slammed the car door a little harder than necessary, my irritation with Tyler fuming like the exhaust from my beat-up Civic. The last sliver of sunlight had just dipped below the horizon as I peeled out of the Presidio’s parking lot. The night was creeping in, wrapping San Francisco in its cool embrace, but inside my car, it was just me and my racing thoughts.

As I merged onto the traffic-laden streets, heading back to my modest apartment, the snippets of overheard conversations at Red Lantern replayed in my mind. I wasn’t just Abby Harper, the coffee-shop girl with the art history degree looking for museum work. No, I was Agent Harper, and that shop was my front-row seat to the underbelly of Grant Avenue.

“Stupid Tyler,” I muttered to myself, thinking about how he couldn’t even pretend to get along for the sake of the mission. It was bad enough that the job was eating into my social life, which, let’s be honest, hadn’t been all that vibrant to begin with. But now, I felt like I was playing a solo game in a world where trust was just another word for weakness.

I didn’t want him to be part of my social life, really. I just hated it when he made me feel like he was the only option.

Whatever. There was no reason for me to think about fucking Agent Tyler Matthews when what I should have been concerned with was doing my job.

The Red Lantern was a gold mine of information—if you understood Mandarin, that is. Lucky for me, I did. And luckier still, no one suspected the white girl with freckles knew anything beyond ‘ni hao’. I smirked, recalling the way people’s eyes glossed over me, their words loose and revealing, thinking I was just part of the scenery.

“Focus, Abby.”

Speaking to myself helped, in a twisted sort of way. It made the loneliness of the job less biting. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening with the effort to keep my mind sharp and my resolve firmer.

Tonight, though, I felt something shift within me—a determination that bordered on obsession. I needed to map out the players, understand the hierarchies, and find a crack in the armor of the Triads. It was the kind of challenge that got my blood pumping, the danger flirting with my senses, promising a thrill that no art exhibit could ever match.

And so, with the city lights blurring past my window, I dove deeper into the puzzle, piecing together the murmurs and laughs that echoed from the walls of Red Lantern. Tomorrow, I’d be back there, sipping lukewarm coffee, pretending not to notice the coded exchanges, the subtle nods.

Tyler had said that part of the job was waiting. But I was done waiting. I wanted things to happen.

I was ready.

Tonight, it was just me, the darkness, and the road stretching ahead—my own personal slice of solitude in a world that thrived on secrets whispered in the shadows.

My train of thought derailed at the sudden buzz of my cell phone. The screen lit up, casting a soft glow in the car’s interior as I glanced down and spotted the caller ID. Dad. A smile touched the corners of my lips despite the tension knotting my shoulders.

I maneuvered the car to a stop at a red light and picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Dad.”

“Sprout,” his voice came through, warm and familiar, a nickname that nestled close to my heart, tethering me to memories of mom and simpler times. It was our thing—his and mine—a way to keep her spirit alive between us.

“Everything okay?” I asked, partly because it was late for him to call, mostly because I needed to hear he was safe. In this line of work, paranoia was a loyal companion, whispering worst-case scenarios with every unexpected ring or knock. And my dad was a cop in a dangerous city. Of course I worried about him.

“Can’t a dad check in on his daughter?” There was a rustle on his end, the sound of papers or maybe leaves. He loved his garden, said it kept mom close.

“Of course,” I replied, watching the traffic light linger on red, enjoying this small oasis of normalcy amidst the chaos of my double life.

“Missing Boston yet?” His voice held a lilt of humor, but underneath there was something else—an edge I couldn’t quite place. Concern, maybe? Dad wasn’t one to mask his feelings well, not from me.

“Every day.” My response was automatic, the truth slipping out before I could dress it up in the half-lies that had become my second language. “But, you know, duty calls.”

“Sprout,” he began, hesitation coloring his tone, “just remember, if you need anything—“

“I’ve got it covered, Dad.” I cut him off gently, not wanting to worry him further. “Really, I’m fine.”

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