The day Ah Hua got out of prison, nobody came to pick him up.
He had taken the fall for his boss and served three years. By the time he got out, his boss had been replaced, his old brothers had all gone their separate ways, and even the person he’d fought so hard to protect was gone. He stood on Portland Street. The neon lights were still shining, but the street no longer belonged to him.
Ah Man got up at four every morning. She pushed her cart to the mouth of the alley to sell sweet soup: five dollars a bowl, three for ten. Her father had run off with a mountain of debt, her mother had died of illness, and she’d been left alone to survive on this street for over twenty years. Uncle Gui said if she couldn’t pay him back, she’d have to work at one of his clubs. She had no right to refuse.
One rainy night, he was chased and hacked at, then collapsed in front of her stall. She took him in. Not because she was brave, but because she’d had enough: enough of watching people get beaten, enough of pretending she hadn’t seen a thing.
Two people with nothing left had only each other on this street.
But Portland Street didn’t believe in fate. It believed only in money, fists, and rules. Uncle Gui wanted his life in exchange for her safety. Brother Hua wanted his territory in exchange for her freedom. He agreed. “My life isn’t worth much, but it’s the only thing I have left.”
On June 30, 1997, a heavy rain fell over Hong Kong. He walked through the rain all night, searching for an answer: could two people with nothing but their worthless lives make it out of this street alive?
