Mister Chang

The air inside the Yellow Flag was thick with the smell of cheap whiskey, stale cigarette smoke, and the low murmur of dangerous men pretending to be civil. In the far corner, away from the door and the windows, Mister Chang sat with the kind of stillness that didn't belong in a bar full of cutthroats.

He was dressed like he was waiting for a board meeting in hell—black suit pressed, vest buttoned, white shirt crisp despite the tropical humidity that made everyone else sweat through their shirts. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes even under the dim amber glow of the bar lights. One hand rested lazily on the table, fingers idly tapping ash from a burning cigarette into a glass tray.

His head tilted slightly, the ghost of an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He wasn't looking at anything in particular, just listening to the rhythm of the room, reading the weight of the silence between conversations. A tall glass of something dark sat untouched beside his elbow.

The door was open. The seat across from him was empty.