Háo Héng started backing up, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Please, let me explain—this is all a misunderstanding—I can clarify everything—"
"It's true," Tòumíng said, still trying to process. "You actually have cameras hidden in here?"
"Multiple cameras," Měi Nán confirmed. He walked to one of the air vents, stood on his tiptoes, and reached up to pop the cover off. His fingers worked quickly, confidently, the movements of someone who'd done this before. "See this? Pinhole camera. Wireless. Streams to external storage."
He pulled out a small device no bigger than a coin, holding it up for Tòumíng to see.
"How did you—" Tòumíng started.
"Horny fuckers who rent me for the night usually want spank bank material afterward," Měi Nán explained matter-of-factly while examining another vent. "They booby trap hotel rooms, apartments, wherever we meet up. I learned to check for this shit within my first month working. It's basically survival 101 for escorts."
He moved systematically through the master bedroom, his practiced eye finding what Tòumíng would have never noticed. Another air vent, another camera. A smoke detector that looked completely normal, camera inside, revealed when Měi Nán unscrewed the cover. The decorative sconce by the bathroom door—camera and microphone hidden in the base.
Eight cameras total in the master bedroom alone. And ten microphones, their small recording devices tucked into various fixtures, air vents, even inside the decorative molding.
"There's one microphone in each of the other bedrooms too," Měi Nán said, moving into the hallway and checking the adjacent rooms quickly. "Yep. All five of them. Same setup. Hidden in the ceiling fixtures."
They went back downstairs, Měi Nán now in full investigation mode, Háo Héng following behind them with increasing desperation.
In the kitchen, Měi Nán opened the microwave and found a microphone taped to the interior top panel. "For recording conversations during meal prep. People talk about sensitive shit while cooking."
The TV in the living room had both a camera and microphone embedded in the frame, disguised as part of the screen's border.
The study, the room with the built-in bookshelves and the professional atmosphere—had a microphone hidden in the desk drawer. "For recording phone calls, probably. Banking information, passwords, business deals. Anything valuable he could sell or use for blackmail."
Háo Héng's face had gone from pale to almost gray, sweat beading on his forehead despite the villa's excellent climate control.
"Please," he said, his voice cracking. "Please, I can explain—"
"We should call the cops," Tòumíng said, pulling out his phone. "This is illegal. Like, very illegal. Surveillance without consent, blackmail—"
"NO!" Háo Héng lurched forward, then stopped when both Tòumíng and Měi Nán tensed. "Please, no police! I'll do anything! Just not the police!"
"Beat the fuck out of him," Měi Nán said coldly, his eyes hard. "Seriously. Break his nose. Crack a few ribs. Make him regret every second of this scam."
"Měi—" Tòumíng grabbed his arm as he started forward.
"He's been blackmailing people! Recording them in intimate moments! Probably ruining marriages, careers, lives! He deserves to get his ass kicked!"
"I know, but—"
"This is how I make money!" Háo Héng's voice rose to a desperate pitch. "I need this! I have a family! Four kids! Mouths to feed! They depend on me! I can't go to jail, I can't lose this property, please, you have to understand—"
Měi Nán pulled out his phone with his free hand, typing rapidly. "You have a LinkedIn profile, right? Let's see... Háo Héng, property management..." He scrolled. "Oh look. One son. Nineteen years old. Currently attending university in Beijing. Living in student housing. Not four kids. One. And he's already out of the house."
Háo Héng's mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
"You're a liar," Měi Nán continued, his voice flat and cold. "Through and through. The sob story is fake. The family emergency is fake. You're just a predator who found a profitable way to exploit people."
"I—that's not—"
Then Měi Nán's expression shifted, something calculating crossing his features. He looked at Tòumíng, then back at Háo Héng, and his voice took on a different quality—still cold, but now with an edge of something dangerous.
"You want to know who you're really dealing with?" Měi Nán gestured toward Tòumíng. "My boyfriend here? He's not some random miner. He's connected. Gang affiliated. You know what he did the other day?"
Háo Héng's eyes went wide.
"He killed a man," Měi Nán said it with such casual certainty that even Tòumíng almost believed the implication. "Bare hands. Over a dispute. Left the body in an alley."
It wasn't technically a lie—Pàng Hǔ might actually be dead by now, and the neck snap had been fatal before the testicular trauma finished the job. But the way Měi Nán said it, the deliberate vagueness, made it sound like Tòumíng was some kind of professional enforcer.
Háo Héng took several steps backward, his back hitting the wall.
Tòumíng caught on immediately. His brain, which had been struggling to process the situation, suddenly clicked into gear. He'd watched a movie last week during one of his doom-scrolling sessions. A crime thriller. The dialogue had stuck with him because it was so over-the-top, so theatrical.
Time to put it to use.
He walked forward slowly, deliberately, letting each footstep echo in the large living room. Háo Héng pressed himself harder against the wall, eyes darting between Tòumíng and the door, clearly calculating if he could make a run for it.
Tòumíng reached down and grabbed the hem of his shirt, lifting it slowly to reveal his torso.
Fourteen bullet wound scars. Two stab wound scars. Various other marks from the beating and the healing process. His abs and pecs, defined from the metabolic healing's fat-burning process, made him look even more dangerous, like someone who was built for violence.
Háo Héng made a small whimpering sound.
Tòumíng leaned in close, his voice dropping to something low and theatrical, channeling every crime movie he'd binge-watched in the past two weeks.
"You wanna know how I got these scars?" (Joker)
Háo Héng's breathing became rapid, shallow. His eyes were fixed on the bullet wounds, on the clear evidence that Tòumíng had survived things that should have been fatal.
Tòumíng stepped closer, reached out, and grabbed Háo Héng's face with one hand—not violently, but firmly enough to make the man freeze in place. His fingers pressed into Háo Héng's cheeks, holding his head steady, forcing eye contact.
Another line from the movie. He'd been dying to use it, and this seemed like the perfect moment.
"So uhh..." Tòumíng paused for effect, letting the tension build. "Now I'm gonna make ya an offer you can't refuse. Capisce?"
The Italian word sounded ridiculous in his Chinese accent, but the effect was perfect. Háo Héng's eyes went even wider, genuine terror replacing the earlier desperation.
He nodded frantically, his face still held in Tòumíng's grip, unable to speak with his cheeks compressed.
Měi Nán stood off to the side, arms crossed, his expression one of dark satisfaction. Whatever happened next, Háo Héng was completely at their mercy, too terrified to refuse anything they demanded.
The beautiful villa, the hidden cameras, the blackmail scheme—all of it had shifted power completely into their hands.
Tòumíng released Háo Héng's face and stepped back slightly, still maintaining the intimidating presence but giving him just enough space to breathe.
Háo Héng nodded again, this time without being physically held, his whole body trembling.
"Good," Tòumíng said, still channeling that movie character energy. "Now we're gonna talk terms."