The Ducati sped through the streets, crossing several dirty blocks before stopping beneath the arched gate of Chinatown.
Vincent rubbed his numb face.
The bike only came with one helmet, and since Selina was wearing it, Vincent spent the entire ride on the back, his arms wrapped around her waist and his face pressed against her back.
The strong wind kept whipping her blonde wig into his face like a leather whip, leaving his cheeks red and sore.
Catching his miserable expression, Selina offered a teasing, suggestive smirk.
“Should I get a second helmet for next time?” “Don’t bother, I don’t plan on making a habit of this.
” Vincent pretended to miss the hint completely.
They walked through the main gate into Chinatown.
Selina immediately headed for a restaurant with a bright red sign, but Vincent grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” “Inside to eat,” Selina responded.
“Their buttered noodles are a killer.” *Buttered noodles?
What kind of terrible food is that?* Vincent muttered as he looked up at the English sign.
“‘Lucky Fortune Restaurant’…
What real Chinese restaurant names itself that?
It’s probably owned by an American-born Chinese or a Southeast Asian immigrant who serves food made for American tastes.
It has nothing to do with authentic Chinese food.” “Oh, so you’re a connoisseur now?” Selina crossed her arms, studying him with genuine amusement.
“Are you kidding me?
I’m an expert.” Selina kept watching him.
Ever since they met, she had realized he was full of contradictions.
Was he brave?
She had seen him hiding under a blanket in the empty Senate house, looking completely broken.
Was he a coward?
Yet he was the one who had drawn the Bio-Human’s attention, giving her enough time to escape.
You couldn’t even call him rational, considering no sane person would ever dream up a suicidal escape plan through a sewage drainage pipe.
But to call him insane felt wrong too, because he stayed calm under crushing pressure, calculated their survival odds, and managed to walk away from the crossfire between Maroni and Falcone without a scratch.
She always assumed he was a master at keeping his true self carefully locked away, except for right now.
Ever since they stepped into Chinatown, Vincent’s entire demeanor had changed.
He was looking left and right, his eyes reflecting an intense, almost profound sense of nostalgia.
It was natural for Selina to overthink it.
As a street thief turned high-end operator, she usually dealt with wealthy politicians and corrupt elites who tore off their real skin just to wear a bloody, smiling mask.
But Vincent was different.
His bravery was real, his cowardice was real, his logic was real, and his madness was real.
He didn’t need to fake anything.
Human beings were just naturally messy.
…
Vincent eventually chose a tiny, cramped place called Chunfang Dumpling House.
The entire shop was barely thirty square meters.
The peeling walls held a yellowed calendar from years ago, and a small wooden table in the back served as a simple shrine holding a small Buddha statue.
The tables were crowded with Asian faces.
Some wore dirty blue-collar overalls, others wore white shirts and loosened ties.
They ate quietly, only occasionally giving the two newcomers cautious, curious looks.
For a moment, Vincent and Selina felt like the real outsiders.
“Is this place really authentic?” Selina whispered.
“Just look at the clientele.
You can fool tourists with Americanized trash, but you can’t fool the locals.” The owner was a woman in her late fifties.
She walked over to their table, wiping her hands on her grease-stained apron, and asked in broken English, “What can I get for you?” “Two large plates of pork and chive dumplings.” The moment Vincent responded in fluent Mandarin with a slight northern dialect, the woman’s eyes instantly lit up.
The surrounding customers stopped chewing, their heads turned to face Vincent in total shock.
“Oh, holy mother boy!
Where did you learn to speak like that?
It’s perfect!” The owner gasped.
“I’ve been speaking it for over twenty years, it better be perfect.” Vincent smiled.
The tension in the room disappeared immediately.
The nearby diners laughed, and Selina could clearly feel the cold, cautious hostility fade away, replaced by a quiet sense of warmth and familiarity.
While they waited for the food, Selina nudged the back of Vincent’s hand.
“How did you do that?
A second ago, they looked like they wanted to stab us.
Now they’re treating us like family.” “Cultural identity,” Vincent explained quietly.
“Speaking their language means you respect their roots.
These people are incredibly warm and welcoming, but they’re also deeply defensive.
It’s a survival trait.
History left a lot of ugly scars on their homeland from foreign invaders.
If you want them to accept you, you have to get rid of your own arrogance and defenses first.” Selina nodded slowly.
She understood what he said, but she completely missed the deeper emotional meaning behind it.
When the hot dumplings arrived, Vincent poured plenty of black vinegar into a small dipping dish.
Then he took a few raw garlic cloves from a plastic bowl on the table, peeled one, and popped it into his mouth.
“Raw garlic?” Selina frowned in disgust.
“It’s the advanced technique.
Want to try?” Selina shook her head violently.
Vincent didn’t insist.
He picked up a plump dumpling with his chopsticks, dipped it in the vinegar, and put it into his mouth.
As soon as he bit into it, the fresh flavor of chives and the hot, savory pork juices filled his mouth.
He closed his eyes, and a look of pure satisfaction spread across his face.
“Hell yeah…
That’s the good stuff.” Selina took a bite of her own, and her eyes widened in surprise.
She had grown up in the slums, eating from almost every cheap food stall in the Lower District.
But for this price, she couldn’t remember ever having a meal this flavorful.
“This is a dumpling?
Alright, you weren’t lying.
You really know your stuff.” She looked up to compliment him again, but stopped.
Vincent was still sitting in the same position, his chin slightly raised and his eyes closed, slowly chewing every bite as if it meant something special.
Behind him, the dim red light from the Buddha shrine cast a soft, warm glow over his shoulders.
*Is this food seriously giving him a religious experience?* Selina couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh.
The simple meal brought them closer than they had been since the sewer run.
Once they finished, they walked out onto the street completely satisfied, the owner waving cheerfully from the doorway.
“Come back soon, young man!” “You bet!” Vincent waved back with a gentle smile.
When he turned around, he found Selina staring at him with a raised eyebrow.
“What’s up?” “Come back to my place,” Selina said softly, her voice lower than before.
“We can have some coffee…
or whatever.” Vincent’s brain froze for a moment.
He wasn’t an idiot.
He knew exactly what she meant by that invitation, but every survival instinct told him to say no.
Carmine Falcone was Selina’s biological father.
If Vincent wanted to help Oswald take over the underworld, he would eventually have to fight Falcone.
Even though Selina said she wanted to destroy his empire, family ties could become dangerous when real shit began.
A nobody like Vincent couldn’t afford even one mistake.
Playing both Maroni and Falcone was already like walking on a razor’s edge.
One wrong move, and he’d be dead.
He took a deep breath, preparing a polite rejection.
“Sounds great, let’s go.” *Wait…
What the fuck?
I was supposed to say no!* By the time his brain caught up, his legs had already carried him back onto the Ducati’s rear seat.
He swore he wasn’t thinking with his small head, but it felt like another part of his mind had taken over and made the decision for him.
*Don’t tell me this is another un-skippable canon event like the casino massacre?* The terrifying thought made him reach into his jacket.
His fingers touched something thick wrapped in paper.
He pulled it out, and his blood ran cold.
A brand-new comic book was sitting in his inner pocket.
The cover was slightly bent, and one edge had a faint coffee stain.
It looked like it had been there the whole time, unnoticed until that very moment.
The first comic had been completely destroyed by the sewage water in the tunnels.
Now, a new one had spawned out of nowhere.
Vincent finally had proof.
Every time a major story event was about to happen, a new comic appeared in his pocket.
What kind of sick, twisted tragedy was waiting for him at Selina’s apartment?