Chapter Text
The carving blade looks like silk in his hand.
Moonlight, washing the floors in pale white, pours through the thrown open windows. The curtains barely flutter in the night air. The susurrus of the summer leaves isn’t enough to hide the sound of footsteps, however soft they may be.
Except for his.
Shang-chi moves like air through the compound, one hand gripping the blade, the other clenching and unclenching as blood oozes from a cut on his palm. He doesn’t really feel it. All he notices is the sensation of his bare feet on the oak floors, his toes digging into the grooves of the board. Shang-chi only pauses to check that the blood didn’t drip where it shouldn’t.
When he finally peers around the corner to see the padlocked door and the posted guards, he hardly blinks. The door to the courtyard is propped open, and he easily slips through it.
The air outside is cool. It smells faintly of lilies. For a moment, he’s five-years-old again, being tucked into bed. She’s leaning over him, pressing her lips against his forehead. Her black hair tickles his cheek.
Shang-chi scrubs his bloodied hand against his tunic. The pain returns, sharp and bright.
He stalks around the courtyard, keeping to the dark until he spots an ornate dragon figurine jutting out from the overhang. He pulls himself up with the injured hand. The knife is still tight in the other. In one fluid movement, he’s crouching on the tiled roof.
A guard passes beneath him seconds later, footsteps hard and heavy.
Shang-chi moves faster now, leaping swiftly from rooftop to rooftop. Tiles clatter to the ground as a few break free. He doesn’t wait to see if anyone hears.
When he spies the padlocked room a few yards away, he finally slows to a steady prowl. There is an air vent below him on the side of the concrete building, roughly a hundred feet off the ground. There’s no windows, no other exits.
Shang-chi is glad that the entrance is padlocked—it makes his work a lot easier.
Using his fingers to feel for the screws, he pries the vent open after slicking down the hinges with blood. There are better ways to lubricate the joints, but he’s running out of time. The vent opens quietly and the metal pane dangles in the air. Shang-chi wipes off the blood with his cotton tunic, careful to not smear it around.
Then, one hand still gripping the ledge above him, he twists his body downwards through the gap. He swings and launches himself into the darkness. Wind whistles past his ears for a second before he tumbles onto the ground inside, rolling to a stop before he hits the wall.
Shang-chi does not pause.
The shriveled old man laying in the king bed jolts up, instantly reaching for a gun on his nightstand.
But Shang-chi is already there, and the silver blade is already at his throat.
The two lock eyes. Shang-chi drinks in the look of dark terror. The old man’s pupils are wide and black.
The knife glides against the man’s white throat, leaving behind a polite slash of crimson. The years of training kick in smoothly. Shang-chi presses his palm over the man’s mouth. He tilts the man’s head back and watches as blood soaks into the intricate embroidery of his nightshirt.
There is a bit of muffled gurgling. The man goes limp. His eyes are wide-open. Glassy and empty. Shang-chi checks his pulse.
There is none.
The mission is over.
Shang-chi sits on his heels for a bit, staring idly as the puddle on the sheets grows. He doesn’t really feel anything yet, and the disappointment drowns out his thoughts when he realizes.
Someone is banging on the door now. The padlock rattles.
Shang-chi slowly wipes the blade on the comforter. His chest is starting to hurt.
The door bursts open and three guards stream into the room, guns cocked and pointing directly at him.
Shang-chi is flying through the air before he’s even registered the guns. He spins and flings the blade at the guard on the left. It impales the man’s arm against the wall. There is a bit of screaming.
A bullet whizzes past his head.
Shang-chi ducks and lashes out with his leg at the same time, sending another guard crashing into the bedpost. He blocks, then swings around again to send a fist through a guard’s face. There’s a crunching noise. Shang-chi uppercuts. His knuckles connect, and the man’s head snaps upward.
It is a quick and brutal affair.
Shang-chi steps over the bodies as he exits the room. His tunic smells like iron.
***
That night, still in his uniform, he drinks himself into a stupor in a SoHo alleyway. The stolen alcohol starts to taste sweet and rich by the third bottle.
“Hey, kid, go home,” a bouncer calls out when he stumbles past a bar.
Shang-chi squints at him. The bouncer has an ugly, pug-like nose. And he’s wearing a cheap two-piece suit.
Shang-chi turns around and smashes the empty bottle he’s holding against the brick wall. It shatters into a hundred glittery pieces.
“Yo, you can’t do that here,” the bouncer says, stepping forward threateningly. He’s a big guy, probably double Shang-chi’s weight. “You leave or I call the cops, chink.”
“Call the cops then,” Shang-chi manages to slur out.
The alcohol sings in his blood like a siren song. For the first time in months, he can forget about his father waiting for him at home. He can forget the harsh set of his father’s mouth, the clang of the ugly metal rings, the power that exudes off of him like visible heat.
He only sways a little as he pulls his limbs into a fighting stance. The bouncer rolls his eyes.
“Stupid fucking street kids,” the bouncer says as he shoves Shang-chi off the sidewalk.
Shang-chi stumbles backward, one foot stepping off the curb. The streetlights buzz above him.
Then, he lurches forward and drives a sharp fist straight into the bouncer’s kidney.
The bouncer hunches over, groaning.
“You little shit—“
Suddenly, a pair of iron hands clamp around his wrists, yanking him upward. Shang-chi looks up. He contemplates dislocating the man’s arms.
It’s a hulking man wearing a suit.
Ah, Shang-chi thinks, another bouncer.
This time, it’s the pug-nosed bouncer that lands a solid punch to Shang-chi’s nose.
The punch makes his ears ring. There’s something warm and wet leaking from his nose.
“I killed a man today,” Shang-chi says freely, the pain like a balm to his soul. “He killed my mom so I slit his throat.”
The bouncers look at each other. They laugh.
When they’re finished with him, leaving him in a crumpled, bloody heap on the trash in the alleyway, Shang-chi almost calls them back. He almost wants to beg.
It’s not enough, Shang-chi thinks.
His father would be waiting. But he was never going back home.
“Xialing,” the wind seems to whisper, before he shuts his eyes.