"THIS IS A ROBBERY!" the lead man shouted, his voice muffled by his tactical mask. "EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM! NOW!"
The warehouse workers dropped what they were doing. Boxes clattered to the floor. Bricks of cocaine skittered across the concrete. Hands shot into the air, trembling, desperate, terrified.
"YOU!" The lead man pointed at a cluster of workers near the shelving units. "IN THAT ROOM! ALL OF YOU! MOVE!"
He gestured toward a door on the far wall—a boiler room, from the look of it, with pipes running along the ceiling and a massive industrial furnace dominating the space. The workers shuffled toward it, their faces pale, their movements jerky and uncoordinated. They were being herded like cattle, crammed into the small space, their bodies pressing against each other in the suffocating heat.
"KEEP MOVING!" another robber yelled, his weapon trained on the stragglers. "FASTER! WE DON'T HAVE ALL DAY!"
Within minutes, all fifty-plus staff members had been shoved into the boiler room. The door slammed shut behind them, the lock clicking into place. The sound of muffled sobs and panicked breathing filtered through the metal.
The robbers turned their attention to the remaining people in the warehouse—the customers, the visitors, the unlucky souls who'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were about twenty of them, a mix of businessmen, dealers, and desperate addicts. They were herded to the center of the warehouse, forced to kneel on the cold concrete, their hands yanked behind their backs and bound with zip ties.
"ANYONE WHO BREATHES TOO LOUD GETS A BULLET!" one of the robbers barked, his voice carrying a note of sadistic glee. "ANYONE WHO MOVES GETS TWO! ANYONE WHO EVEN THINKS ABOUT RUNNING GETS THE WHOLE MAGAZINE!"
The hostages trembled. A few whimpered. One man, a businessman in an expensive suit, started crying openly, his shoulders shaking, his voice cracking as he whispered desperately to anyone who would listen.
"Please," he begged, his eyes darting from face to face. "Please, I'm a businessman. I have money. I'll pay anything. ANYTHING. Just get me out of here. I'll give you whatever you want. Please, I'm begging you."
The other hostages glared at him. A woman with a bruised eye hissed, "Shut the fuck up. Money ain't worth risking our lives for. You think any of us can help you? We're in the same position as you."
"Please, I have eight million yuan in the bank. I'll give it all to whoever saves me. All of it. I swear."
"Shut up, you idiot. They'll hear you."
But Tòumíng had heard. His head perked up, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, a slow grin spreading across his face. He leaned toward the crying businessman, his voice low and conspiratorial.
"How much we talking?"
The businessman's head snapped toward him, his eyes wide with desperate hope. "Eight million. Eight million in the bank. I'll give you a million. One million yuan. Just get me out of here."
Tòumíng's grin widened. He let out a soft, amused sound—a tsk, tsk, tsk that seemed to echo in the tense silence. He shook his head slowly, mockingly.
"One million?" He raised an eyebrow. "You must not value your life very much. Only offering one-eighth of your money? That's insulting, really. I thought businessmen knew how to negotiate."
The businessman's face went pale. "What? No, I—I mean—two million. Two million. Please, that's—"
Tòumíng leaned back, feigning disinterest. He looked away, his gaze drifting across the warehouse, as if he was already bored with the conversation. "I don't know, man. Two million doesn't really motivate me. I've got a lot going on. A lot of stress. A lot of people who want to kill me. Two million feels like... I don't know, like a rounding error. Like pocket change."
"Four million!" the businessman blurted out, his voice cracking. "Four million! Please, that's half of everything I have!"
Tòumíng turned back to him, his grin sharp, predatory. "Four million. Hmm. That's better. That's... that's getting closer to interesting." He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"But I was thinking more like five million. Five million sounds like a nice, round number. Very satisfying."
The businessman's eyes went wide with horror. "Five million?! That's insane! That's—that's way too much! You're robbing me!"
"Hey," Tòumíng said, spreading his hands in a gesture of mock innocence, "if you want to die, that's your choice. It means nothing to me. I'll just sit here, watch you get shot, and then go back to my life. No skin off my nose."
The businessman choked, a strangled sound caught between a sob and a scream. He looked around desperately, searching for any other option, any other hope. Finding none, he slumped forward, defeated.
"Fine," he whispered. "Five million. I'll give you five million. Just please—"
Tòumíng's grin widened impossibly further. "Sorry," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine amusement. "It's six million now."
The businessman's head snapped up. His face went from pale to purple, his veins bulging in his forehead, his voice rising to a near-scream. "SIX MILLION?! You're a bigger robber than the people actually robbing this place! You're insane! This is extortion! This is—"
"Six million," Tòumíng repeated, his tone flat, unyielding. "Take it or leave it. But I should warn you, the offer expires in about ten seconds. And judging by the way those guys are loading up, I don't think you have much time."
The businessman opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. His shoulders slumped. His head dropped. A defeated, broken sound escaped his throat.
"Fine," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Six million. I'll pay you six million. Just get me out of here alive."
Tòumíng patted him on the shoulder, his grin warm and friendly, like they were old friends making a deal over coffee. "Good choice. You won't regret it."
Across the warehouse, the robbers were working quickly, stuffing bricks of high-percentage cocaine into duffel bags. The bags were filling fast, bulging with product, their straps straining under the weight. One of them, a younger guy with a nervous energy, was shouting orders to his companions.
"Bring the truck out back! Now! We need to move before the cops show up!"
Another robber nodded and sprinted toward the loading dock, his footsteps echoing through the warehouse.
The younger robber, left alone for a moment, glanced around to make sure no one was watching. His eyes landed on a brick of cocaine that had fallen during the chaos, separated from its box, sitting on the floor like a gift from the universe.
He lowered his mask, revealing a young face, maybe twenty-two, with acne scars and nervous eyes. He crouched down, his fingers tearing at the plastic wrap, peeling back a corner to reveal the white powder inside. He brought it to his face, his nostrils flaring, ready to take a hit.
Tòumíng appeared behind him.
The younger robber froze, his hand still raised, his nose inches from the cocaine. He hadn't heard Tòumíng move, hadn't felt him approach. It was like he'd materialized out of thin air.
Tòumíng's voice was low, disappointed, carrying a note of genuine disapproval. He looked at the younger robber with an expression that was almost paternal, like a disappointed older brother.
"You know," he said, shaking his head slowly, "it's bad to get high on your own supply, man."