In an old-style teahouse in Wan Chai, in a private dining room on the second floor, behind a screen, five people were sitting around a round table.
No one spoke.
The tea has cooled down, and the chrysanthemum petals in the cup have sunk to the bottom, like a handful of yellowed snow. The sunlight outside the window shines in through the blinds, drawing light patterns on the floor, like the markings on a tiger. Five people sat in the darkness of the light pattern, their faces mostly obscured by shadows. The teahouse was very quiet. The occasional clatter of dishes and the low chatter of tea patrons could be heard downstairs. But when these sounds reached the second floor, they had become blurry, as if they were coming from a far away place.
The air was filled with the aroma of Pu'er tea and an indescribable sense of tension. Five people who don't know each other, come from different places and have different backgrounds, are sitting at the same table at the moment for the same purpose.
"Everyone is here." The man who spoke was sitting in the main seat. He was in his fifties, wearing a dark gray jacket, and his hair was combed meticulously. His name is Cheng Shau Kee, and he is a member of the largest society in Hong Kong, "He Lian Sheng". There was no expression on his face, but his eyes were bright, like two polished obsidian stones, shining sharply in the dim light. His fingers tapped on the table, once, twice, three times, rhythmically, like a pendulum.
Five people looked up at him.
