At three o'clock in the morning, Yau Ma Tei seemed to have been splashed with a layer of turbid ink. Only sporadic neon lights were struggling on the damp arcade walls, making the light and shadow appear longer and shorter, much like the young men under Azhen who were injured all the time. The humid air is mixed with the salty smell of sea fog, the burnt aroma of cigars, and a faint smell of blood. Ah Zhen has smelled this smell for twenty years, from a street gangster who couldn't eat enough to a talker in charge of the underground order of half of Hong Kong Island. This smell is his confidence and his destiny.
