Joe Chin a Chinese American and a PI in Little China
The cigarette smoke curled around his jawline as he watched the Buick pull away. Joe was a man who walked the razor's edge between the respectable laundries and the opium dens of the Tong, a Chinese American face in a city that often forgot his kind, yet couldn't function without them. He felt the weight of the Colt .38 in his shoulder holster—a comforting, cold reminder that in Little China, silence was a commodity and loyalties were bought with cheap whiskey and fear.
Photoleap
Joe Chin a Chinese American and a PI in Little China
The cigarette smoke curled around his jawline as he watched the Buick pull away. Joe was a man who walked the razor's edge between the respectable laundries and the opium dens of the Tong, a Chinese American face in a city that often forgot his kind, yet couldn't function without them. He felt the weight of the Colt .38 in his shoulder holster—a comforting, cold reminder that in Little China, silence was a commodity and loyalties were bought with cheap whiskey and fear.
Photoleap