The rain was coming down hard again.
Li Ah You stood under the rusty bus stop shelter, watching the water pour off the corrugated metal roof like a small waterfall. His umbrella – bought for five ringgit from some uncle's roadside stall three months ago – had finally given up the ghost this morning. Two of the metal ribs had snapped, leaving it looking like a broken bird.
"Fuck my life," he muttered under his breath, pulling his thin jacket tighter.
The bus was late. Of course it was. The bus was always late when you actually needed it to be on time. He could already hear Zhang Jie's voice in his head, that sharp, nagging tone that could cut through concrete: "Ah You! Late again ah? You think this restaurant is your grandfather's is it?"
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, the screen already cracked from when he'd dropped it last month. Couldn't afford to fix it, so he'd just stuck some tape over the worst cracks and called it a day.
It was a message from Ah Ma, his grandmother back in the kampung.
Ah You ah... today I went clinic already. Doctor say need to do checkup next month. Maybe cost one thousand plus...
One thousand ringgit.
He stared at the message for a long moment, then opened his mobile banking app. The numbers glared back at him: RM 347.50.
Twelve days until payday.
"Yeah," he said to nobody in particular. "Fuck my life."
The bus finally wheezed to a stop twenty minutes later. Ah You climbed on, paid his two ringgit, and grabbed onto one of the grimy overhead handles. The bus smelled like wet clothes and someone's leftover nasi lemak. An old Chinese aunty was arguing with the driver about the fare. A Malay teenager sat in the back with his earbuds in, head bobbing to music only he could hear. A couple of construction workers – probably Filipino or Indonesian – dozed in their seats, still covered in cement dust.
Just another morning in Kuching.
Ah You closed his eyes and tried not to think about the checkup, or the rent, or the fact that Linda – the boss's daughter-in-law who'd just come back from Singapore – had been walking around the restaurant yesterday with a clipboard, eyeing all the staff like she was deciding which ones to throw out first.
The bus lurched over a pothole and his shoulder banged into the pole.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
By the time he got to Golden Phoenix Restaurant, he was fifteen minutes late and completely soaked. His shoes – fake Adidas that he'd bought from a night market for thirty ringgit – squelched with every step. He could feel the water squishing between his toes.
The back entrance was propped open with a plastic crate. He slipped inside, hoping to get to the changing room without being noticed.
No such luck.
"AH YOU!"
Zhang Jie materialized like some kind of angry spirit, her hands already on her hips. She was in her fifties, with permed hair dyed an aggressive shade of reddish-brown and enough gold jewelry to stock a small pawn shop. Her makeup was caked on so thick you could probably scrape it off with a spatula.
"Sorry Zhang Jie, the bus –"
"Bus, bus, always the bus! You think I'm stupid ah? Every day got excuse!" She looked him up and down with obvious disgust. "Look at you! Like rubbish! Go change quickly, we got VIP room today. You handle the food service."
"Yes, Zhang Jie."
He shuffled past her toward the staff room, keeping his head down. As he passed the kitchen, he could hear the other workers gossiping:
"Eh, you heard or not? The boss's son coming back from Singapore. Going to take over the restaurant."
"That one ah? The one study business there? Wah, sure want to change everything lah."
"I heard they want to fire people. Make it more 'modern' konon."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut.
In the cramped changing room that smelled like bleach and old socks, Ah You pulled on his work uniform – a white shirt and black pants that had seen better days. The shirt was starting to yellow around the collar no matter how many times he washed it.
He looked at himself in the spotted mirror hanging on the wall.
Nineteen years old, but he looked older. Way older. Dark circles under his eyes. Cheeks a bit hollow because sometimes he skipped dinner to save money. The only thing that didn't look completely defeated was his eyes – still clear, still sharp. His Dayak heritage gave him slightly deeper features than most Chinese, higher cheekbones, but in a predominantly Chinese city like Kuching, being mixed just made him feel like he didn't quite fit in anywhere.
Not Chinese enough. Not native enough.
Just... in between.
"Ah You! Food ready already! Quick quick!"
"Coming!"
He took a deep breath and headed out to the dining floor.
The lunch rush was brutal.
Ah You's arms were burning from carrying heavy trays back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. The AC was barely working – probably the boss was trying to save on electricity – and sweat was pouring down his back, making his shirt stick to his skin.
"Waiter! This laksa too salty lah!"
"Sorry sir, I'll get you a new bowl..."
"Miss! Miss! Can I have the bill?"
"Yes, coming!"
"Eh, waiter boy! Why so slow? You sleeping is it?"
Smile. Apologize. Bow a little. Take the abuse. That's the job.
By two in the afternoon, the lunch crowd had finally thinned out. Ah You grabbed a chance to slip out to the back alley for a smoke. He didn't smoke much – couldn't afford to, really – but he kept a pack of those cheap five-ringgit cigarettes for days like this. Days when he needed something, anything, to take the edge off.
The back alley was a mess. Broken chairs, rusty gas canisters, stacks of old crates. There was a potted bougainvillea plant in the corner that somehow thrived despite the neglect, its bright red flowers almost obscene against the grimy gray walls.
Ah You leaned against the wall, lit up, and took a long drag.
His phone vibrated. Another message from Ah Ma.
He listened to her voice note. Her voice was shaky, old:
Ah You... Ah Ma don't want to trouble you ah... but the doctor say maybe need to do blood test, scan, all that. Very expensive. But never mind lah, Ah Ma can wait...
His throat tightened.
She couldn't wait. She was seventy-three and had diabetes. She needed those tests.
He was about to record a reply when the back door swung open with a bang.
A woman walked in. Mid-twenties, wearing a designer blouse and tailored pants that probably cost more than his entire month's salary. Carrying a Louis Vuitton bag – the real deal, not some Canal Street knockoff. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless.
She looked at him the way you'd look at a particularly ugly insect.
"You're Li Ah You?"
Her English was crisp, precise. Singaporean accent.
"Uh... yes. Can I help you?"
"I'm Linda. Boss's daughter-in-law." She pulled out her phone and started tapping on it. "My husband is taking over this place. I'm doing preliminary staff evaluation."
Oh shit.
"How long have you worked here?"
"About two years."
"Education?"
"SPM." Malaysian Certificate of Education – basically high school diploma.
Her lip curled slightly. "Mixed blood?"
The question stung more than it should have.
"My mother is Dayak. Father was Chinese."
"I see." Tap tap tap on her phone. "Can you speak Iban?"
"Some."
"Mandarin?"
"Yes."
"English?"
"Basic."
She looked up from her phone, her expression unreadable. "So you're a little bit of everything, but not really good at anything specific."
The words landed like slaps.
"We'll be restructuring next month," Linda continued, already turning to leave. "Streamlining operations. Reducing redundancy." She paused at the door. "If you can't prove your value..." She shrugged. "Well. I'm sure you understand."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Ah You stood there, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. He looked at the bougainvillea – those bright, defiant red flowers.
"Fuck," he whispered.
He punched the wall. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough that his knuckles stung.
Eight PM. End of shift.
Ah You dragged himself out of the restaurant and into the humid Kuching night. The rain had stopped, but the air was still thick and heavy. The city was coming alive – bars blasting music, food stalls filling the air with the smell of grilled meat and spices, groups of young people laughing and chatting.
He just wanted to go home to his tiny room, collapse on his mattress, and sleep.
But he couldn't. Not yet.
Ah Ma's medical bills. One thousand plus.
He needed money.
There was a pawn shop two blocks away, wedged between a phone repair kiosk and a place that sold counterfeit DVDs. Ah You had walked past it a hundred times but never gone in.
Until now.
The shop was small and cramped, every surface covered with pawned items – watches, jewelry, old cameras, electric guitars. The owner was a fat Indian guy with thick glasses perched on his nose.
Ah You pulled out a small cloth pouch from his backpack. Inside was a copper ring – the only thing his father had left him before he died. Old, tarnished, with strange symbols carved into it that Ah You had never been able to identify.
The pawn shop owner took the ring, examined it under a magnifying glass, turned it over a few times.
Then shook his head.
"Fifty ringgit. That's the best I can do."
"Fifty?" Ah You's heart sank. "But it's... it's an antique. It was my father's."
"Listen, kid. Sentimental value is your problem, not mine. This is just old copper. Fifty ringgit, take it or leave it."
Ah You stared at the ring.
Fifty ringgit wouldn't even cover the phone bill.
He put the ring back in the pouch.
"I'll... I'll think about it."
Outside, he stood on the sidewalk, not sure where to go. His phone buzzed again. The landlord:
Ah You, you still owe three hundred for this month's rent. Please settle by this weekend ya.
Three hundred for rent.
One thousand plus for Ah Ma.
Maybe unemployed next month.
Ah You leaned against a lamp post and slowly slid down until he was squatting on the ground, head in his hands.
Nineteen years old. No money. No education. No connections. No family except a sick grandmother in a village three hours away.
What was the fucking point?
"Why..." he whispered. "Why me..."
That's when the ring started to burn.
Not warm. Not hot.
BURNING.
Like someone had stuck a red-hot poker through his palm.
"SHIT!" He tried to drop it, but the ring was stuck to his hand, melting into his skin –
Heat. Blazing through his veins. His vision went white. He could hear something – voices? Whispers? Screaming?
And then, floating in front of his eyes:
[DETECTING HOST EMOTIONAL COLLAPSE]
[DETECTING ANCIENT BLOODLINE AWAKENING CONDITIONS MET]
[SARAWAK ESPER SYSTEM INITIALIZING]
"What the..."
Everything went black.
[To Be Continued]