Page 13 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“Morning, Mr. Zhou,” greeted the owner, a stout man with a ready smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Everyone knew who I was, or rather, who my father was—the Serpent, the head of our little empire. But to them, I was just Nathan, the polite young man who occasionally stopped by to ensure everything ran smoothly.

“Morning,” I replied with an easy grin, one that I’d perfected over the years. “How’s the family?”

“Good, good,” he answered, wiping his hands on his apron. “Business is steady, thanks to you.”

I nodded, my gaze sweeping across the restaurant. It wasn’t just about intimidation or power; these were people’s lives, their livelihoods. And while I might be known for what I could do in the shadows, here, in the light of day, I played a different part.

“Let me know if you need anything,” I said, the charm coming as naturally as breathing—a necessary skill when your world demanded you be both a guardian and a threat.

“Will do, Mr. Zhou. Thank you.” His gratitude was genuine, even if there was a hint of unease beneath it.

That was the balance we struck—a dance of respect and fear that kept our world spinning.

As I left the restaurant and continued on my rounds, the mask of the charming businessman never wavered. Each smile, each handshake held the weight of unspoken promises. In Chinatown, words were often unnecessary; it was what lay behind them that mattered.

And behind mine lay the full force of the Zhou Triad.

The chime above the flower shop door heralded my arrival, a subtle but familiar jingle that cut through the hum of Chinatown’s morning bustle. The kind old clerk, Mr. Lao, looked up from his arrangement of chrysanthemums, a soft smile creasing his wrinkled face.

“Ah, Nathan,” he greeted, his voice as warm as the sun filtering through the storefront window. “Back office?”

“Morning, Mr. Lao,” I returned the greeting, keeping my tone light. “Yeah, just need to check on something.”

I slipped past the vibrant displays and headed straight for the back. Behind a plain door, a secret oasis awaited me—my sanctuary within this concrete jungle. The room was alive with greens and colors, a stark difference to the steel and glass of the city outside.

Picking up the watering can, I let the mask of the mafia prince fall away, replaced by the careful hands of a gardener. The orchids were my pride, delicate blooms that required a precise touch. As I tended to each one, I whispered encouragements to them under my breath, a habit picked up in quieter moments.

Sometimes it was easier to talk to plants than people…and maybe that made me a freak, but there was no one here to judge.

And some silly part of me thought it might make the plants more healthy.

“Grow strong, little guys,” I murmured, a faint smile playing on my lips as I worked the soil gently. Here, among the plants, I could almost forget the weight of my last name, the expectations that came with it, and the blood that sometimes stained it.

The leaves of a particularly lush fern needed cleaning, and as I wiped away the dust, it was as if I was clearing the dark images from my mind. The dead man’s vacant eyes from my father’s basement—no, not now. Not here. In this green haven, life thrived under my care, a sharp contrast to the death my family dealt in.

“Beautiful, aren’t you?” I praised a blooming orchid, its petals unfurling like a promise of peace. For a moment, I allowed myself the illusion, the fantasy of a different life—one rooted in nurturing rather than destroying.

Stepping out from the sanctuary of my green haven, the clamor of Chinatown in the morning greeted me like an old friend. The scent of spices and the sound of haggling vendors filled the air, but it was the sight at Red Lantern Coffee that caught my attention.

There she was, the girl from yesterday, her brown hair catching the early sun with hidden ribbons of gold as she cleared a table on the patio.

She was gorgeous.

Much prettier than any orchid.

“Hey,” I called out, making my way over with a casual stride. Her head snapped up, a smile blooming across her freckled face. It was astonishing how the heaviness of last night’s horrors seemed to lift, replaced by something lighter, almost hopeful.

“Hey, stranger,” she greeted, her green eyes sparkling in the daylight. The memory of the dead man, which had clung to me like a second skin, dissolved under her gaze.

“Enjoying your flowers?” I asked, leaning against the railing.

“Absolutely,” the pretty waitress said, her hands pausing mid-wipe on the tabletop. “They’re amazing. They add so much life to my place. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” I replied, offering her a hint of a grin. There was a warmth there, something genuine that even I didn’t expect. “Flowers should be around someone who appreciates their beauty.”

“Then they’re in the right place,” she quipped, her tone light, matching mine.

“Seems they are.”

---