Tommy Wu

I found Tommy Wu at his preferred table. He sat in the half-light like a statue carved from a shadow, flanked by a creature they called Bao — his tiger-man bodyguard, broad-shouldered, narrow-eyed, and silent as extinction.

 

“You’ve got guts, Malloy,” he said, “Not brains, necessarily, but guts. That counts for something in a dying city.”

 

Bao cracked his knuckles once. Just once. The sound was like a bone folding.

 

I stayed standing. Chairs in this room weren’t for everyone.

 

“You know why I’m here,” I said.

 

Tommy smiled — a cold little crescent moon of a thing. “The won ton recipe.” He placed the cup down gently, like it might explode if mishandled. “You’re the fourth man to come sniffing around it. The other three aren’t answering questions anymore.”

 

“You think it’s just about pork and garlic?” he said. “That recipe is older than dynasties. It’s a formula. A cipher. A map written in flavor. Basil Feng didn’t create it — he decoded it.”

 

He gestured toward the door, not unkindly.

 

“Walk away, Malloy. That recipe doesn’t belong in your world. It belongs to history. To blood. To the ones willing to kill for taste.”

 

He paused, eyes glinting.

 

“And believe me — the hunger out there isn’t for food.”

 

Then he waved a hand, and Bao stood.

 

Which meant the conversation was over.

 

And maybe — if I had any sense left — so was I.

 

Image created in MidJourney AI and finished with Topaz Studio and Lightroom Classic.

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