Partners In Crime

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Tristan puts out his cigarette. He has gotten used to the luxury his cousin lives in, but the charm of run-down hideouts hold a special place in his memory. He crosses his arms, silently observing the people below. They're forced to think short-term for survival, which the high-ups love to take advantage of.

Promises of a better life if they chose a side.

In the end, they come back in a shoebox or not at all.

The past few months are kind to him, he is able to unite the groups scattered across the city. It did mean less public appearances, which he adores. Working as a model attracts countless pairs of eyes, longing stares desperate to get close. One look from his Uncle and he understands. He couldn't involve himself with just anyone, only choosing the most powerful and influential would work in his favor. That very group of people merely desire sexual favors in return or even light companionship.

It's a sad, empty existence.

Tristan plays the part of a flirtatious, charming young man quite well. Under the guise of meeting under pure coincidence, he'd have some rich, lovesick elite effortlessly wrapped under his finger. A shame he had to dispose of them afterwards. It's neither exciting nor satisfying, just work.

Nothing else he can do.

There's something about the tension in downtown that puts him off. He watches cars pass by, looking around for anything interesting. Would it kill him on impact? He chuckles softly, mainly to himself.

Business has become slow and his usual clients carry a growing debt. At this rate, he'd need to shift locations. If that fails, he'd need another favor from his client.

Troublesome as always.

Tristan ditches his usual all-black style for a sleeveless white shirt, a mesh jacket and jeans. If Stephen were around, he'd give the look of disapproval. In his defense, he tried wearing a suit. But a blue velvet corset with earrings to match were apparently too much to show off.

Tristan finger combs his hair. He slips on his glasses, scrolling through the tablet and jots down notes. He puts in his earbuds, listening attentively. After he finishes, he tosses it into his drawer.

Quite an unexpected turn of events.

No issue, he'd deal with it as always. He pinches the bridge of his nose. He couldn't put a finger on it, but he had a bad feeling about today. Did he hang out with Stephen too often or what? These gut feelings were his thing, not Tristan's. He wouldn't be surprised if grew to like the taste of tea at this point. The memory of hot bitter leaf juice makes him shudder. Not anytime soon.

The door creaks open.

"Boss. Xingchen came to see you." A male red-head waves, leaning on the door frame. He has a stubble and bags around his eyes.

"Alright. Thanks, John." Tristan said. John walks past and shuts the door behind him. His men have seen better days. Countless time he had told them not to call him that, but they insist. Tristan become fond of their company and knows that he could trust them with almost anything.

If he is wrong, he'd have himself to blame.

He swallows and stares at his bare hands. No matter how much time passes, he can feel the blood on his skin. The iron smell that hung in the air buries itself in his memory. Memories of driving bullets in skulls at a moment's notice flood his conscience. Tristan closes his eyes, wrapping his arm around himself. He trembles and shakes, squinting his eyes shut to try and not make a single sound.

A stinging pain pulls him out of his senses. He looks down through his tears, and finds a bleeding cut on his index finger. The taste of iron on his lips explains enough. Not again. He wipes his face and opens a window, enjoying a cigarette.

Is she asleep already?

He remembers their last conversation on the phone, mainly about Stephen, and decides against it. She'd keep talking in hopes for information about him. Isabelle must not be involved, at all. In any case, he would be the better topic, not that stuffy and stupidly tall relative of his.

Tristan scrolls through his gadget, puts in earbuds and jots down notes. After he reviews his scribbles, he put his things away and steps out. The crisp air of the evening clears his head, though nothing could compare to his trusty cigarettes. How much longer until midnight? He looks around. He faces a tall, dark-haired male. Upon Tristan's approach he takes off his sunglasses, revealing dark brown eyes.

Xingchen Wang. Elegant, alluring phoenix-shaped eyes. His beauty is something Tristan admires, from his seemingly flawless skin to silky long hair.

"You needed something, bud?" Tristan asks, a smile on his face. His signature scent of green tea and mint calms his nerves. Did he just come from the Wang residence? He recalls the delectable mooncakes he had from his last visit. When they first met, they didn't talk at all.

Any poor fool would be done for if they crossed him. He does have a gentle nature and a mellifluous voice, but he would body-slam anyone if needed to.

After spending so much time together, quiet isn't an option. He couldn't pronounce his name right at first. Xingchen's family understood and learned English after hearing him speak one word. His dear friend had to break the news to him that Tristan's attempt at Mandarin was so bad neither of them wanted to hear it again.

"My grandmother wanted you to have these." Xingchen gives Tristan a red paper that has golden characters on it. Tristan rubs it in between his fingers.

This better make him rich beyond measure.

He looks at his friend. He doesn't have the slightest clue to what this is. He could be messing with him. Could this be a get well soon card or what? Xingchen merely laughs, as if he could hear his thoughts.

"It's supposed to help you find love." He explains. Tristan scoffs. How boring. Love isn't his thing. Isabelle would be ecstatic about it, rambling on about her stupid daydreams. The thought of her hearing her voice brings a smile to his lips.

"In that case you need it more than I do." He replies with a grin. His friend's ears turn pink. Bingo.

"No I--" Xingchen set his silky locks to the side. Tristan was used to seeing his hair in a braid or tied up, it's a nice change to see it down. He rubs his hair in between his fingers. It really is soft!

"You've known Mei for ages," Tristan said. He places his hands on his hips and stares right at his best friend. Xingchen rubs the nape of his neck. How he can not be afraid of a fight, but suddenly be unable to speak at the thought of a date? His dear friend puts his thinking into overdrive at times. Well, he can't complain.

"Yet you never asked her out. Now, she's engaged!" Tristan finishes. He knew Xingchen as one of the most competitive people in sparring, yet he was so lackluster in relationships.

Could that be why he and Stephen got along so well? That explains it. Two dry, clueless romantics not knowing where to begin. Their dear matchmaker, well versed in the art of seduction offers his advice, to which neither take seriously.

He remembers the time he tried to set a blind date for his friend, which ended poorly. Mainly because he and Isabelle stalked them the whole time and made him even more nervous. They got great pictures, on the bright side.

"I like someone else."

Xingchen looks away. Tristan rolls his eyes. In other words, he hadn't found someone he wanted to go after. In their junior years, he was distant and quiet. He'd spend his vacant time in the library or the photography club. They bumped into one another by accident, but Xingchen's camera lens broke because of Tristan. Because he felt guilty, he bought a new one and offered they hangout some time.

Did it go like that? It's been so long.

Isabelle never failed to fawn over his friend, which irked Tristan. The times she had gotten mistaken as his girlfriend wasn't funny anymore. The Wang family, especially the grandparents constantly tease her about it, making sure to look at him. She declined the idea of her and Xingchen every single time.

Tristan huffs and crosses his arms. That memory does nothing for him now. Women fawn over him left and right, wishing they could be with him. Her open and rather blunt rejection hit his ego, hard. He understood what it meant. Isabelle wanted a partner in an area he lacked, called height. Ouch.

"Something the matter, Tris?"

The smell of smoke and gasoline in the air brings him back to the present. The city never changes, regardless of the insane weather or situation.

Each time he pays a visit, Xingchen's family spoils him rotten. Tristan loves the attention and their cooking of course, though it made him feel sad for himself. Not because he couldn't use chopsticks, but rather he thought of his own family. He grows anxious each day, unaware of his little sister's whereabouts.

The dim streetlights flicker as a stray cat dives into a dumpster.

"Seriously, why drop by? It isn't safe at this hour, even for you." He scratches his nose. The gunshots a few blocks away doesn't faze either of them. They're in the most run-down part of the city, where the sides of abandoned buildings have roofs out of plastic or anything they can find. The people who live in informal settlements, where life is a daily struggle. As they walk by, they shut the doors and turn off the lights.

"Just checking on you." Xingchen gives a soft smile. Liar. He glances at the corners of the street and rubs his neck. He'll talk about it when it's ready, Tristan knows him well enough.

"Stay for breakfast." Tristan suggests. He observes the city, leaning on rusty street rails. In a couple of hours, the night sky would turn to the light blue everyone recognized. He had to prepare a list of counter-arguments for his cousin once this is over. Had Stephen wrapped things on his end already?

"Not if you made it." He grimaces. Tristan laughs. That did hurt his pride a little, but it's the truth. He's hopeless in the kitchen, unless it's instant noodles.

"Peanut butter and jelly?" He smiles. Xingchen made a face and he waves it off, telling him not to worry. He embraces his friend in an exaggerated manner, making him smile as he pushes him off.

"Tristan."

Hearing his serious tone, he raises an eyebrow. Oh?

Xingchen began but Tristan places his hand on his shoulder. Thanks to one of his tech-savvy men, he was able to gather enough information. The conversation he listened to before meeting was enough. He took out the piece of paper he used earlier.

It's probably illegal, but it helps.

In short, someone dear to his friend got kidnapped. How it happened is rather stupid, but neither of them will leave him there. Just to be safe, he wrote down the conversation on paper. Tristan figures he'd be enough for a small-scale job.

"I think it's a trap." Tristan said. The sudden agreement from the third party didn't sit right with him. The last thing he'd want is for his best friend to get hurt, caught up in a web of blood. He knew far too well what that'd do to Xingchen.

"I'm not changing my mind." He folds his arms. Tristan pulls out a gun and magazine from his jacket. The metal is cold to the touch, brand-new from his supplier. One pack ought to be more than enough.

"Like I'd let you go alone, dumbass."

Xingchen beams and pat his head. He swats his hand away while making a call.

"Would you stop that!" Tristan complains, fixing his hair again. He'd need a whole tube of hair gel at this rate.

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The two park their vehicles in front of a run-down building. It appears to be an abandoned restaurant, with tacky designs painted on the exterior.

"Hey, if I was ever going through something, would you be there for me?" Xingchen said. Tristan blinks. Well that came out of the blue.

"Whatever it is you're going through; I hope it sucks." Tristan smirks. His companion laughs, spinning a knife in between his fingers. The pair high-five one another and slowly walk inside.

Xingchen's presence gave Tristan some peace of mind. Going in blind like this is the worst option. Not knowing the layout or where to find who they're looking for, the odds are not in their favor. Hopefully, they wouldn't be too late. Worst case scenario, the poor guy is already gone.

Tristan tries to ignore the sound of crushed glass particles and dust with each step. Just had to happen with his new shoes. He'd need to order a new pair after this.

They walk past the dusty entrance and into s dimly-lit walkway. A man beside the door frame stares at them and goes in. Xingchen raises two fingers and wordlessly followed after him. Be careful? What's that supposed to mean? Goodness. He rolls his eyes. The moment he's in, he finds a spacious well-kept interior. It smells of incense and floor wax. Couldn't they have picked the expensive kind? The cheap smell is going to give him a headache.

An aged man reclines in the middle, enjoying a cigar. It seems as if his health is deteriorating, with sunken eye sockets and red eyes. He wore a face mask and thick, black clothing. Without any hesitation, Xinghen presses a knife onto his throat. Tristan raises his fists on instinct. Were they unarmed? Things look more suspicious by the minute.

"Where is he?" Xingchen barks.

"Your friend is not here." The aged man acknowledges. Tristan presses his lips into a thin line. Do the Chinese do business differently? He wasn't informed at all. Stephen would know, he is attentive during each meeting and even has a stupid little book he writes in. So old school.

"Bullshit." Xingchen snaps, followed by words Tristan couldn't catch. Hopefully he'd remember to ask later.

"I have what you wanted." The old man waves his hand. One of his henchmen hands Tristan a sleek suitcase. He inspects its contents. Nothing more than some cash, unlabeled packs of white powder and a box of cigars. The usual, how boring. Xingchen holds two fingers up and nods.

Finally! Now he can show off. Tristan whips out a gun from his inner pocket and fires, landing a bullet right between the old man's eyes. Has body falls back onto the chair, blood oozing out of him and onto the leather. He almost felt bad for the clean-up team.

The two henchmen look at each other and run. Xingchen tosses knives, followed by two loud thuds. Tristan walks over the bodies, careful not to step on them. He hums a song to himself, lightly dancing around to the beat. Now, if he was kidnapped where would he be? They check each room nearby, smashing the handles and kicking the doors in. More abandoned furniture and years' worth of dust.

Something glittering on the floor catches his attention. It's a silver necklace with a blue pendant in the middle. Is this a moonstone? He leans on the wall and gives the jewelry to his friend. Xingchen takes it in his hands and holds it close. He runs past a corner, calling out in a language Tristan didn't understand.

"Wait!"

Tristan dashes after him. Idiot! He whips his head around, each corner looks identical. The dust makes him cough and sputter, which did not help. Goggles would've been a smart idea. The building's layout made no sense. He now stands at the top of a staircase, with more corridors down below. He spots three heads below and crouches.

Xingchen stood still, staring straight ahead. Tristan dives under a table, accidentally hitting his knee. He sees a wounded man in the corner, behind his friend. Again, he couldn't understand what he spoke nor to whom. He recognizes the language as Cantonese, but aside that Tristan is lost. He should've studied the language, maybe then he'd be able to reply back.

He whistles once. The signal. Tristan tosses a smoke grenade. He hurries over and carries the wounded man on his back. A trickle of warm liquid runs down his back. That better not be saliva. Xingchen drags them out of the smoke, past two flights of stairs.

"Zhang Wei, you awake?" Tristan shrugs his shoulders lightly. The man groans in response. A group of armed men came towards their way. Better than no response.

"Xingchen!" He exclaims. In response, he grabs Tristan's gun and pulls the trigger. They fell to the ground, lifeless. Disgusting.

It didn't last long. More men came and they're surrounded. The corridors made sense, now. Maybe he should've brought more than one magazine. He doesn't have any other supplies left. His grip tightens on Zhang. He can't move around carelessly. Being this close, flinging a knife would be too risky. Xingchen shoots at the lights, leaving them in pitch black darkness. Tristan ducks, avoiding sparks. Whether it came from guns or electricity, he can't tell. He hears metal clash against one another, followed by wails of pain.

Tristan felt a hand searching his pockets. Xingchen uses his lighter. Not seeing anyone else yet, they walk.

"Hey, bud. Is there something you forgot to mention?" Tristan asked. Carrying a wounded guy was one thing, but he's bleeding all over his favorite jacket. That red leather jacket he had been keeping would've been perfect.

First of all, it's disgusting. The smell of iron while doing laundry is not pleasant. Secondly, Zhang is much bigger than him. Even though their physique were not close, the resemblance between the two was crystal clear. The same eye shape and silky hair but unlike Xingchen, Zhang is more buff. It must look weird to see a small guy carry someone much bigger than him.

"Not that I know of. " Xingchen replies. Everything looks the same, it feels as if they're walking around in circles. Just how deep do these paths go? Tristan presses his hand on Zhang's forehead. He has a sickly pale glow to him. Wounds decorate his visible skin with a few bruises on his face. The sight makes him sick to his stomach. He lightly taps Zhang's cheek. He weakly pushes his hand off. They're related by blood, all right. Are they first cousins or second?

His companion balls his fists and punches a mirror. Shattered pieces of glass with drops of blood scatter on the floor. Tristan moves large pieces away from Zhang. He stretches his hand out to him, only to get it slapped away. How bothersome.

"Let me see your hand."

Xingchen has pieces of glass embedded into his knuckle. He'd scold him for this later.

Tristan sprays some alcohol on his fingers and slowly picks out the big pieces. Isabelle's constant nagging to maintain his eyebrows made him keep some supplies on him at all times. A bundle of thread, a gauze, a tube of chapstick and tweezers.

He rips off a strip of fabric from his shirt and wraps it around Xingchen's hand. It isn't an ideal job, but Tristan did what he could. His best friend refuses to look at him, but doesn't complain. That's enough for him.

"We leave now, Tristan."

Xingchen carries Zhang out, followed by Tristan. Just as he saw them reach the exit, a bullet whizzes past his ear. He dodges and pulls the trigger. Damn it.

Tristan pulls himself up and runs. A large man stands at the entrance, blocking him. He pulls the trigger but hears nothing but a click. He grits his teeth and slams the gun against the man's cheek. His opponent brushes it off as nothing and wraps his hands on Tristan's neck. Not good.

He kicks at air, unable to breathe. Tristan's vision went in and out of focus. These elevated shoes are useless! Suddenly, the man's eyes roll over and he releases Tristan. He coughs, his lungs hungrily taking in air. His body trembles, the strength leaving his legs.

His attacker has a knife jammed into the back of his head. Xingchen retrieves his knife, wiping the blood onto his sleeve. Tristan's body feels as if it was on fire, with his limbs curling in on themselves. He lies on the ground, gasping for air as he closes his eyes.

"Xingchen. I can't move."

He drops Tristan home, with the help of the housekeep. Xingchen ignores the curious stares of the maid, Clara. He puts the suitcase onto the coffee table. After a brief greeting to Stephen, he leaves quietly.

Tristan feels his mind drift to sleep, until he hears the door slide open. If only he isn't so exhausted, he'd smack whoever thought of disturbing him.

Stephen doesn't look intimidating, wearing such a fluffy bathrobe with bunny slippers. Tristan stares at his cousin. He closes his eyes, blocking out his voice.

Whatever sermon he had, it can wait until morning.

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