I watch her, reading the intensity in her gaze. She isn’t just asking; she’s dissecting me. She must have caught it at the convention center, in that single, unguarded moment when I reached to open the door for her. Her eyes don’t miss a thing. Or she’s just too focused on me, a forensic sweep searching for the crack in the foundation. I offer a thin smile and stand, the chair scraping softly in the stillness. I need to break her direct line of sight.

I walk to the window, turning my back on her question to watch the rain-shrouded campus. The dull, gray glow from the bank of windows, where a persistent drizzle paints slow, meandering paths down the glass. “It’s a little early to talk about death, Elise.” My reflection in the glass is a ghost superimposed over the gray world outside. I pivot, leaning against the sill and facing her with my newfound comfort. “Let’s talk about life. Let’s talk about my current project.”

The air is cool, carrying the faint, institutional smell of old books and disinfectant. It’s strange how she can have an office meant only for a real therapist on this campus. The light that filtered through is indirect and kind, falling upon the high-backed armchairs upholstered in a nubby, oatmeal-colored fabric I just left. The chair is positioned at a slight, conversational angle with Elise, separated by a low, solid table of reclaimed wood. Behind her, a single large print of abstract, swirling chocolate and beige hang on the wall. Bookshelves, built into the alcoves, held a collection of thick spines with titles on neuropsychology and attachment theory, their order precise. And on her table, a simple jade plant thrived in a terracotta pot.

She fidgets with her pen and shifts her posture to perfect alignment with the hard-backed chair. “Life and death are inseparable. One cannot have meaning without the other.” She looks up, her gaze steady, piercing through my defensive bushes. “I’ve researched your public figure. The scholarship student, the brilliant biologist. But for my thesis, I need to explore the real you. A more private, intimate... you.” Her smile is an effective tool, and the way her pupils never shake when looking at me builds such trust that I don’t find welcome. She’s a solid one, staying true to her object while sugarcoating me.

“Fair enough.” I nod, as if conceding a small point. I look down at my wrist and adjust the samsara bracelet to hide it again. The first scar is me trying to free myself from Aunty Three’s handcuff, the rest are just punishment. “This scar... is layered. One wound on top of another.” I let the silence hang for a while. My eyes dart to the beige ceiling. “Why did my mother leave? Why did my father sell me to the Jade Dragon? Why did Brooke kill herself?” I finally meet her eyes again, wondering if she can pass through the ditches. “And why am I the only one who’s still here?” I let her see the bush. Just one misstep and she will fall into the thorn. Come on, take it. Press on Brooke’s death.

Her reaction is unreadable. A slight brow-rise leaves only one crinkle on her left brow. Is it a calculated display of analysis, or a keen observation of a keen hunter seeing through hidden traps? “I see people get tattoos to commemorate unfortunate events. To own them, a coping mechanism.” Her head tilts up while addressing me and I can see the confidence in her speaking, the manner, the rhythm, the way that lips move. “You dress like a tattooed person. All that hidden toughness in the long sleeves, but your skin is inkless.” Her eyes perform a slow, deliberate scan from my head to my toes, like observing a clinical inventory. “So I guess you dress like that to hide your scars.”

I nod and give her a thumb up. “It’s not that serious. Mostly from street fights. A few for being a ‘badboy,’” I say while letting out a soft, self-deprecating breath. “But none for the people who betrayed me.” My gaze falls to my shoulder. “Perhaps I may get a tattoo for the one I love.” Part of me wants to answer all of her questions honestly, but those things are not easy to digest for a person not wading through the mud. Let her believe she has seen my vulnerable side while I cover up my traps.

She nods as if she understands me and I suppose she does, to a degree. But there’s always a seed to be discovered, but not this early. I need to pique her interest. “Can I have a smoke here?” I ask the question to test boundaries. She wants to see the private me, she shall compromise something. Quid pro quo, Elise. “I promise I won’t burn the campus down.” I smile. It’s mostly to entertain myself, a private joke. I’ve found that the smiles you wear for your own amusement are the most convincing ones to others.

“Bad boy, isn’t it?” Elise remarks, more playful than judgment. “I used to catch students smoking on campus.” She sighs, “but I suppose you can be an exemption.” Then she gives me a reluctant greenlight and returns to her tablet. The sharp cluck, cluck, cluck of her nails on the screen tears through me as I inhale the first hit.

It’s the same damn rhythm. The same countdown that spirals my mind to revisit the place I once called home. The scoundrels from the Jade Dragon were sitting on my dinner table as if it was theirs. cluck, cluck, cluck. The big boy, the one with a silvery chain on his neck, and mouth puffing cheap cigarette without filter, leaned over me and my father. We were kneeling, of course, in our own house. My father was even prostrating, his body was shaking. What the fuck are you afraid of? You have done it on yourself. That’s what I was thinking at the time and it hasn’t changed ever since. Because my father turned to me and shoved me to the ground. I was eight. Then he told them to take me because I could write calligraphy, so I could fake documents for the gang. What If I don’t have that talent?

Her voice pulls me back. “I hope you can elaborate more when you’ve indulged in your nicotine.”

I blink, the room snapping back. The rain is still tracing its paths, and she’s still waiting. Somewhere, lines of trucks start honking. Their time in the city has just passed, and soon, road police and urban securities will pour on the streets to deal with the damn traffic. “What’s your addiction then?” I ask, my voice a calm, casual counterpoint to the memory’s violence. “Tea? Very sweet coffee like L in Death Note? Or you prefer wine, like an experienced therapist with years of hearing fucked-up stories about fucked-up people’s lives?” I deliver the lines softly, letting the harsh words hang in the air between us. I conceal myself with thorns now, perhaps her callous hand can pluck it.

She doesn’t flinch a bit. “That’s a harsh way to put it, but I guess I’ll have to face a few of them in my future career.” She looks up, her expression is so neutral that it feels unreal. “I prefer wine in my private time, and possibly with my boyfriend, if I’ve any. But for work, I prefer tea and biscuits. I find them a quick charge for my energy.” She stands up and walks over a cabinet, then she offers me a biscuit bag. “Want some?”

I hold my hand aloft, signaling her to throw it to me. Biskuit Oat Honey Nuts, fancy brand. The crunchy texture and sweet taste disperses in my bitter tongue. “Tea’s an excellent choice. I’m indulged enough to give you an actual answer. Ask away.” There, I set my third trap while drinking her tea. The sweetness burns. Too much sugar, too fast. I can feel the old familiar haze coming.

“You mentioned the people who abandoned you. Those are traumas I want to explore.” She leans back slightly, her posture still perfectly controlled. “Let’s begin with your childhood, shall we?” She shifts her legs and offers an encouraging smile as if I’m a kid.

And it works. So, I begin to list the stories. I offer them like curated artifacts from a museum of ruin. How we moved from the countryside to the city with big dreams. Then, my mother vanished, my father’s descent into gambling and violence. Was it my father’s fault first? I don’t really remember now. Then, it becomes more detailed. I got two-year probation for robbery at thirteen. My father gave the final, brutal beating that sent me to the streets for good. I became homeless for a year before I met her. Aunty Three. Her henchmen caught me stealing her ‘tax money’, yes, I was desperate. I impersonated a member of her gang. She took me in though, claiming that I was bold enough. In truth, I knew she was the one who tempted my father into gambling. Maybe it was her redemption act on my family’s downfall. Anyway, I was trapped with the Jade Dragon ever since.

“I think there’s a lot more to that tremendous experience when you meet her again and convince her that you are worth something to her,” Elise says, starting to swirl her pen between her fingers.

“I told her the world is changing,” I reply, my voice dropping into a colder, more strategic register. “That what she currently operates with is not a long shot. She needs someone with a degree, perhaps many. She needs to shelter kids who could become lawyers and businessmen who could help her camouflage her business. I know this because I’ve already adapted, imposing on her gang members and actually getting away with it many times before she caught me.”

Elise’s forehead crinkled into three distinct lines. “You told her that when you were fifteen?”

“At six, I left the peaceful countryside for this concrete jungle with my father and mother.” I hold her gaze, my own flat and unwavering. “I have already learned to adapt ever since.”

Elise mumbles something while writing on her tablet. I circle the table, surprised that she’s so deep in her thoughts. I peek over and see the clinical notation.

Sudden change of environment in early childhood pushes adaptability of the subject to a very high extreme - trigger for the correct flight or fight instinct?

She is actually doing it for her thesis? The thought is a jolt. And she hasn’t asked or pushed about Brooke’s death? I decide to make the core statement. “This is what it took to leave the Jade Dragon.” I sit back down, pull off a boot and a sock, and place my bare foot on the cold, wooden chair beside me. Two toes are missing. A thick, ropelike scar, pale and vicious, runs from my heel halfway up my foot.

Elise stares at the mangled foot for a single, suspended second. Then she nods, a slow, accepting dip of her chin. She tilts her head up and meets my gaze, her eyes clear and unnervingly calm. “I’m glad that you are over with them in one major piece. Most people aren’t.”

“You have seen these before?” I ask, probing.

“No,” she says, her voice even. “But I’m prepared. I heard if they taught you how to steal wallets or watches, they would break your hand when you walked away.”

“My calligraphy skill precedes the joining, or else…” I shake my head, looking at my hands. “They taught me how to ride a bike though, then they made me race for them.”

“So they broke your calf and cut your toes, as a price for leaving?” She inhales sharply.

Despite the play, she’s still feeling uneasy around such topics. Good. “I’m young, I’ve recovered. But I won’t race again, or lift real weights.”

She nods as if she understands me, then she shudders, her posture straightens. She must have realized that despite them not teaching me to fake documents, they still smashed my hands so I can’t be of value. Her mouth slightly drops and I can see that her tongue is trying to articulate a speech. Her hand drifts over mine in awe and curiosity and maybe, driven by empathy.

“Well, that’s enough for the first session, right?” I pull my sock back on. And just by that swift moment, my face and her are so close I can smell the perfume on the back of her ears once again. “I need to keep something up my sleeve for the other two.”

She blushes but hides it quickly by straightening her posture. “Agree.” She closes her tablet with a soft, definitive click, but avoids eye contact with me now. “I’ve much to note and to cross-reference with the terminology. Do you need me to take you out?”

“I suppose you would rather finish before the thrill ebbs away,” I say while pulling my boots. As I stand, the familiar phantom ache reminds me of a memory both painful and deserved. I am almost off-balance and blame myself for taking too much sugar lately.

As my hand grabs the door’s knuckle, the memory reemerges. It was Aunty Three who introduced me to the cold edge of iron.

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“Alright, boss,” Vinny’s voice rings tiredly.

This is where you’re supposed to tell Bixxy to end the call. But I don’t. I leave the line hanging and listen to the silence on the other end, to the nothingness that unfolds when a man thinks he’s alone. I know Vinny is loyal, his mouth is a locked vault. But loyalty is a variable, and in this particular time frame, I can’t afford variables. All I hear is the familiar flip of a ledger page and the scratch of his pen. Good. For now.

The engine of my bike groans as I slow for the red light on Tran Hung Dao. Some dude honks at me for not turning right. It’s someone’s uncle on a bike helmet, who is accustomed to the old ways of traffic. You can turn right even when the light is red back then, but now it costs two hundred dollars fine. I turn my head slightly while pointing at the signal just to be civil. Another honk and I may lose it. Just as I imagine, he rounds around me and gives me a stare. I stare back and pull my road mask down. Then I turn my bike off, hinting to him that I’m ready to throw hands. You will never know when and where a street fight will happen. And the reason for it? Just pure road rage or toxic masculinity or just some nonsense. It’s just how this city works. Just as I imagine again, he just keeps on his business and I keep on mine. Some nonsense stares down play, but if you don’t play it, they will get you.

The others look at me, I offer them a smile and signal the incoming green light. Imagine if I’m a girl, dude may throw some insults. Bullies don’t disappear, they grow old and even more bitter. I confess if it was a few years back, I would have followed the dude to see the stare settle. But I’m civilized now, just a person before a wide, tired artery of the most famous road in Saigon. History seeps up through the asphalt. Generations of soldiers have marched here. I can almost feel their ghosts in the humid air, parading for peace, departing for war, now swallowed by the daily grind. Ancient trees stand as silent witnesses, their canopies casting dappled shadows that hold more memory than any book. To my right, behind an ivy-strewn wall, sits a military precinct. I don’t know its exact function, only its vibe. A place where important, unsmiling men decide fates in air-conditioned rooms. A fortress of order.

Which is why the pothole felt like a personal betrayal.

My front wheel jolts violently, the impact rattling up the handlebars and into my bones. I curse, not at the potential damage, but at the incongruity. Even the most ordered systems have their cracks. The thought is as unwelcome as the jolt. A flaw in the blueprint. A reminder that nothing, no matter how solid, is perfectly maintained.

I ride on, the bike purring back into its rhythm until another red light forces a stop. I finally pull out my phone to kill the call. The screen lights up with a series of anonymous messages, their cryptic meanings are clear as day to me. We polish the jade tomorrow night. The rooster is ready, but the water is boiling hot. Still going? Would you like to know the meaning?

The Jade Dragon is pulling the leash on my neck. I swipe the notifications away with a snort. My vision sharpens, the world becoming clear and bright as I force my eyes wider. They are a debt to be paid, a variable in my escape equation. Meeting them is a necessary torture, a chance to tread on their words and see if they suspect my plan. Dealing with these people, you have to hide your teeth and let them think they’ve seen your hidden knife.

The light turns green. I cross the bridge, executing a harsh U-turn onto a temporary structure so narrow it’s an insult to the word bridge. Two bikes can’t pass without a delicate, embarrassing dance of wriggling handlebars and averted eyes. A bottleneck. A choke point for a city that’s outgrown its own skin.

Then, I steer onto Binh Dong, the street that runs along the canal. This is my transition. The ancient grandeur of Tran Hung Dao gives way to something more intimate, more real. On my side of the water, life is raw and exposed—weathered houses, the scent of frying fish mixed with damp earth, the constant hum of generators. On the far bank, the city gleams with modern glass and steel. The rich live lives curated by money, insulated from the potholes and the temporary bridges.

I prefer my side. Here, you can see the truth of the struggle. It’s why I have to go, just visit the place and see for yourself. The savior point of this dumpster is the canal. It is stubbornly clean, holding its own against the city’s relentless spill. A few old men are perched on stools, their fishing lines cutting slender scars into the water’s surface.

One of them looks up, recognizing the familiar growl of my bike. “Skinny Hai! Come! Storm’s coming, fish’s biting.”

I offer a mannerly wave, a practiced, easy gesture. “Can’t! I’ve got work.” As much as I like the quiet logic of fishing, this isn’t the time. I have a pawn shop to run, a gang to placate, and a future in Missouri to secure. The storm they’re talking about is just weather. The one I’m navigating is made of lies, leverage, and a past that refuses to stay buried. I gun the engine, leaving the quiet camaraderie behind, and steer toward the next front in my personal war.

The steel shutter of my pawn shop comes down with a final, grinding roar. Inside, the air conditioner fights a losing battle against the thick smell of polished metal and dust—the scent of other people’s discarded histories. Vinny is already recounting the day’s take. The man is a human calculator in a worn-out t-shirt. “Slow day, boss. Just the usual desperados and a few students pawning laptops for party money.”

I nod, my eyes scanning the landscape of my kingdom. “Any Apple devices?”

“No boss, they usually sell, not pawning Apples.” He walks the aisle to check our inventory one last time.

I look at the guitars hanging like silent questions, the shelves of cameras that once captured happy moments. “Perhaps we should expand our business into reselling second-hand devices.”

Vinny nods, pouting his mouth in thinking. “We should. Thousands of gamblers here, just in this islet. We’ll be stocked in football season.”

I sigh. It’s bad that I couldn’t let Vinny run this play in my stead. “The new owner will keep you,” I say, pulling an envelope from my blazer. “Your final check. And a bonus.”

Vinny’s clever eyes flicker from the envelope to my face. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did. You’ve been a loyal employee. I couldn’t keep this place for you.” The word is deliberate. I tap his shoulder, even squeeze it a bit. “Use my gratitude wisely, perhaps on the thing we just said.”

“That would be against protocol and… unethical.” He frowns and his eyes drop to his hands.

I squeeze tighter. “No one earns big without losing some blood. Yours is just extra cash on the side. You just offer the customer a back door where the business is not having a frontal escape.” I can sense Vinny’s ambition rising up. “Think about it. It’s almost instant transactions and you already earned credibility here.”

“Got it, boss.” He clenches his fists and looks at me. “But I’ve a favor to ask. When opportunity presents, you take me with you.”

That’s how you earn loyalty. I smile and shake his hand. “I promise. Now go on with your class. Remember, a degree is not always needed but it smoothens your path.”

After he leaves, I’m alone with the silence. My castle, soon to be someone else’s. I’m still young. I can build another. And the next one won’t have a master. I will be the founder, the builder, and the sole master. As the self motivation talk raises my mood, I’m at the jewelry counter, checking on today’s most important deposit. A diamond ring. I unseal the cartoon box into a red velvet one. A broken vow? No shame, just sad how life can get you. As I log the ring into the machine to double check, I see a sparkle in the box. A key.

Brooke’s apartment key, brass as cold as her skin.

My breath hitches, heart a frantic drum in my throat. The memory draps around my chest, emerging before my eyes. The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall, the professor’s droning voice, and her. She was sitting in the front row, head bowed, probably asleep or passed out. The professor, buried in papers, didn’t notice. I felt a spike of irritation. I walked to the podium, my voice cutting through the humid air. “Girl in the pink sweater. This is a lecture, not a dormitory.”

Her head snapped up. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but not from sleep. It was the chemical bloom of ecstasy. She stared back, not with shame, but with a defiant, hazy challenge. Then she just walked out without an apology.

Later, I found her vomiting behind the ancient banyan tree. I offered my handkerchief. “You shouldn’t be taking that Himalayan salt,” I said, my voice low. “The cut is unstable.”

She wiped her mouth, a sly, dangerous smile cutting through her sickness. “So this is how you keep your skin so poreless. A shame my dealer isn’t as... slick... in telling his supplier.”

The cunning in her eyes was a mirror. I felt a smile touch my own lips, a curl of cruelty I may say depending on her next speech. “So you got my attention. What can I be of service to a pretty girl like you?”

It wasn’t a question. It was the beginning of a dance.

I snap back to the present, the ghost of her smile fading. The key is a brand in my hand. Why is it here? The police have had it since her death.

My mind, a tool sharpened by years of survival, kicks into gear. I access the security footage, rewinding to the afternoon. There. A person in a drenched coat, face obscured by a low hood, huddles at the counter. They make the exchange for the ring. And in the moment Vinny is distracted, they slip the key into the box. I zoom in. Judging by the height against the counter, the subtle narrowness of the shoulders... it has to be a woman. I see the glint of gold bracelets on a slender wrist, confirming my theory. A woman of age, wealthy, and in need of money.

The air in the shop, once familiar, now feels charged. I step outside. The rain has stopped, leaving the street washed clean, the air smelling of wet asphalt and night-blooming jasmine. A false purity. I lit up a cigarette. Who is she? Elise’s accomplice? The timing is too coincidental. The thesis and the key, both surfacing at once. A pincer movement. Police? Unlikely. The case is closed. They don’t even have the resources. Brooke’s family? Could they know about me? The police kept my name out of it. I was just a one-night stand in the official narrative. Three nights, to be precise, but it’s just an extended version of the same concept.

I’m missing a variable. An unknown actor has just stepped onto my chessboard. Unable to find a firm answer, I open a drawer and drop the key inside, as if I can lock the question away with it. But it’s too late. The seed has been planted. Exhaustion, a heavier weight than any pawned item, finally pulls me under. I fall asleep at my desk, the cold glass of the display case my pillow.

I wake to the jarring ring of my phone. The removalist. The future, calling to pack away my present. I curse, pushing myself up, my body aching, my mind still snared in the web of suspicion about the key. And my thoughts, sharp and unbidden, turn to Elise, to the interview. If she presses on Brooke’s story, then it’s not a thesis. It’s an investigation. The logic is cold and clear in the morning light.

And I’m the prime suspect.

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I don’t look the part of a standard student, but more like a maintenance guy with style. I always dress with boots, black cargo pants, a blazer, and a white t-shirt underneath. I nod at another pair of passersby as I confirm my ten minutes early arrival, exactly how I liked it. It’s not an easy thing to achieve with the current traffic, but I have managed to achieve a lot more than just being punctual. The police believe I’m innocent. I groom my hair again, a simple under cut with slightly long strand that elevated my wavy hair pattern, then wipe my face clean with wet tissue. Harry, you’ve got this.

The cloud gives way to the rare sunlight of this stormy season as I walk into the hall, into the chaotic mix of sound that disorients my new found peace. The percussive click of heels on polished granite, the low hum of a thousand simultaneous conversations, the laughs of students on their imagined future, the echoes of promotion across the booths of universities across the world—all blend into a perfect chaotic cadence.

I navigate through the torrent of movements like a leaf riding the wind to the NLU section. In my steps, I can’t help but smile at parents clutching folders of transcripts while their children’s eyes wide with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I don’t smile because I’m happy for them, nor envy them for having loving parents, I have passed that phase long ago. My smile is for my own entertainment. Seeds never know what harsh weather awaits for them. I also smile because I know it is a bad metaphor. The better one shall be the little birds leaving the mother’s nest, but I’m a botanical researcher, so seeds are my choice.

As I pass several pillars and into a corner, professor Schmidt has just finished his speech on the dais. We cross our eyes and walk into the NLU booth. “You look even better in person, Harry.” The professor offers a handshake.

I take it firmly with a smile crest on my lip. “As do you, Professor Smith.” Shit, I mispronounced his name. But I maintain straight eye contact.

The professor wears kempt hair and a full beard that has turned partly gray. His dark hazel eyes show no sign of offence, just returning the stare with amusement, much like my own. “Schmidt,” he corrects softly.

“Schmidt,” I repeat rightly this time. “Should we go to a quieter area for a coffee?”

The professor reaches for my elbow, his grip is strong and purposeful, something I don’t accustomed to. “Thanks for the invite but I’m on a tight schedule.” He speaks even softer after, almost like a whisper. “We’re looking forward to your arrival in Missouri.”

That takes me by surprise. He is supposed to interview me before confirming it. But before I can speak, Schmidt taps my hand. “We can’t let you slip to Huntington Botanical Gardens. Your theory and research on the DNA helix has over seventy percent success.”

I slightly tilt my head up. “Then I should bargain about my scholarship, and my share if this seed goes commercial.” Then I smile again, making it blur between a joke and a serious deal.

Schmidt smiles back and nods. “That’s the spirit,” after two seconds, he continues, “Your English is sufficient, say six-months in, you become my lecture’s assistant. Then, you can refer my name in your CV.”

“I’ll work for you and the institution forever,” I say, trying to remain calm at the hideous deal, “why would I need your name in my CV? Why would I even need a CV?” A little flattery won’t hurt anyone, and it’s fine to play naïve to make them off-balance.

Schmidt’s smile widens, revealing his perfect white porcelain teeth. “That attitude seals our deal, Harry. You have surpassed our expectations.”

“Professor Schmidt,” I say firmly, a harsh switch in my tone. It’s time for the real deal. I reach for his elbow, returning the firm grip. Then I reach into my blazer pocket and produce a small, clear vial. Inside, a single seed rests on a bed of cotton. “Your lab must have already formulated this seed using my helix.”

Professor Schmidt’s polite smile tightens almost imperceptibly.

“It didn’t sprout, did it? A problem with the trigger for the height limitation gene,” I say confidently. Then I drop my voice even lower despite the noise. “I’ve worked it out and more. People will have to buy our soil to nurture this seed, like fertilizer.” I cover my mouth, pretending that I’m scratching an itch. “I want two percent.”

The professor is no longer smiling. He studies me with a new, intense focus. The hum of the convention center seems to fade around us. “One. And you walk in as my lead researcher on the project. Not an assistant.”

A present tense, a fact, he’s confirmed. “Then my ship will anchor in Missouri’s bilgewater,” I say.

We shake hands again and I feel a new, profound respect in the professor’s grip. Schmidt disappears into the crowd, and I’m left alone, the vial returns to my pocket like an unclaimed bingo.

I sigh victoriously and can’t help but smile while facing the white wall of the convention center. Years of hard work have finally paid off. Somewhere outside, a siren howls, pretty normal in this deep raining season when wet roads just leave traffic unbearable. A fragrance crosses my nose, slight, fresh, and expensive—the kind that reminds me of Brooke, who wears a sweater touch.

“I know you,” a girl’s voice, soft and mature, rings up behind my back. “Harry Nguyen.” She announces my name before seeing my tag.

“I believe I have not had the pleasure of knowing you, Miss…” She has chestnut hair that falls over her shoulders. Her skin has the healthy glow of an athlete or a doctor, and her eyes, behind dark gray colored lenses, are assessing me with intense focus. It isn’t the romantic kind, more like the act of reading a book.

“Elise Truong.” She offers a handshake and I take it absentmindedly. “I need your help.”

Her hands are rough. Boxing? Cyclist? She wears sport shoes with jeans, and also a blazer on top of a t-shirt. Then my eyes meet hers again, and her dimple is so unfair when she slightly smiles. “Please continue pitching your proposal.” I manage to not stutter against her dazzling appearance.

“It’s about my Ph.D thesis.” She takes her hand back and opens the folder. Then she sidesteps so we are facing the same direction. The Modern Alchemy: Distilling the Core Traits of Post-Traumatic Growth in the Extraordinary Case of___. “Your name here if you agree,” she says with her finger stopping at the blank dash.

Her fragrance is clearer and it’s the type I like. A little flowery, a little woody, and a little spice underneath, all combine into a slight aroma like a breeze of spring. “I’m flattered but no. I don’t want my name in any document.” I again, know that I have spoken in a wrong tone, but I have the very reason to. My last girlfriend passed away just two months ago, and as usual, the boyfriend was the primary suspect. The case is closed now and the cause of death is officially announced suicide by overdosed, but I’m not inclined to let people poking at a healing wound.

“A star student then.” Elise snaps her finger and it really pops amidst the noise. “I’ve done my research about you so I’m offering nine hundred dollars for three interviews.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse.” I step further away from her. Nine hundred dollars. That would cover shipping for my bike, or my first month’s rent in Missouri. The number hangs in the air, tempting me to take it. The proverb says Saigon never sleeps because your money is never enough. The grind never ends to afford a city life. I guess it also applies to every big city like New York, or L.A.

Elise’s face beams up as if she has just understood what’s wrong in her phrasing, or perhaps she just read my reaction. “Oh. It’s not about your recent unfortunate events.” She turns sideways again, realigning us to the same direction while flipping her files. “Here. It’s about overcoming hardship and focusing on the future.”

As long as it’s not about Brooke, I think while tracing her thesis. I’ve every reason to suspect she’s a reporter digging up a hole to launch her career, but nine hundred for three hours is not something that comes to you often.

The findings from this extraordinary case study suggest that therapeutic interventions for complex trauma could be enhanced by consciously fostering these core traits.

Practice Strategic Narrative Reconstruction through guided autobiography exercises.

Develop Goal-Oriented Future Casting by building detailed ‘life maps’ of their desired future.

Strengthen Instrumental Relational Bonding by identifying and building a ‘board of directors’

for their personal growth.

Learn techniques for Cognitive-Emotional Decoupling to manage emotional flooding during triggers.

“Impressive work, Ms.Truong,” I say blandly. This lovely lady seems legit because I peek into her bag while pretending that I read slowly. Style and colored pens, sticker notes, a recorder, pepper spray, and a lips moisturizer. “This is picking up work before it arrives given our social issues.”

I signal her to walk with me. We navigate through the crowd again, and while I’m reading, she takes the lead naturally, steering our path towards the lounge room. She stops and buys us coffee, and I catch our reflection in a mirror. We look good together in the glass, our combination of sharp practicality. Old aunties will say we have the couple features. The thought is dangerous, like a weed sprouting in carefully curated soil. I sigh, thinking about how good I and Brooke look together and how it ends. The thesis, I shall stay focused. She’s older than me and already captured too much of my attention.

Area to cover:

Strategic Narrative Reconstruction. Don’t be the author of your past. Be the editor of your future. Rewrite your story with purpose.

Goal-Oriented Future Casting. Anchor your soul not in the storm you weathered, but in the lighthouse you are building.

Instrumental Relational Bonding. Your network is your net worth. Forge bonds not just for companionship, but for construction.

Cognitive-Emotional Decoupling. In the hurricane of circumstance, build an eye of calm. Let your logic be the architect, not your fear.

“Why me though?” I ask as we sit comfortably on the sofa of the lounge. The noise has faded away behind the wall and all that’s left is the buzzing of the air conditioner.

“You know why I chose you, Harry. What you have achieved given your predicament is the goldmine for me.” She smiles. “So… extra cash before you go abroad?”

I slightly frown. “How do you know?” Since Brooke, it doesn’t bode well to me when someone stalks my back. Is she working for the police?

“You’re beaming when the professor tapped your elbow. Must be good news and you slightly clenched your fist in triumph.”

“That’s detective work, not therapist work, Ms. Truong.” I push out a smile, making it a blur between a joke and a serious statement. So she’s been stalking me for a long time here? I dismiss the idea. Her thesis looks legit and I am not delusional to think she’s following me because she has a crush or something. It must be her work.

“Call me Elise,” she sips her coffee, slowly, and averts her gaze to the vase behind the sofa.

I instinctively mimic her gesture and sips mine. “Oh, half sugar, no milk. You did your homework?” My favorite is full sugar, sometimes double, but I say what I say. I’m entitled to play games with a stranger.

She smirks, neither confirming nor dismissing my probing hint. “You know the professions have similar traits, just different areas to look at. They look at objects for clues, I look at the person to understand their motive.” She leans over, keeping a very deep eye contact while deepening her voice. “Their past, their habits, their expressions, sometimes their darkest, deepest desires.”

I can’t help but break eye contact and scoff out a laugh. “Did you just do a Lucifer imitation, Ms. Lucy?”

She also laughs and I can see her shoulders move. “Yeah, I just finished the show and you know what. He become a therapist in hell.” She shifts her posture, leaning back with her arms on the armbar.

“Really?” I scratch my upper lip while lowering my gaze. I can’t look at her eyes anymore. “I guess it’s a fitting conclusion. He’s healing the damned soul instead of torturing them. That’s real character arc.”

She snaps her finger again. “You could role play Lucifer starter pack, while I do the psychiatrist doctor. No—” she waves her hand. “I mean the therapist.”

They have sex very early in the show if I remember right. Harry, you fucking idiot. I check the time and bite my lip. “I’ve got to go. Work is calling.” Then I stand up and see her face drops. I don’t walk immediately though, just letting the disappointment build up a bit. “But, I’ll take your money and you must have the coffee ready in our first interview.”

She beams up and stands up so fast, so energetic. “Great. Half sugar, no milk?”

“Double sugar, no milk,” I say seriously with a dangling smile. This little reveal, I can let her have it, like a reward for her beauty, intelligence, and persistence. Maybe I’ll let her reopen my wound. After all, I’ve only a few days left here and my story won’t matter anymore.

She nods while her brow slightly raises, realizing my previous attempt to test her. Then she shoves her folder to me. “There’s a questionnaire below, please answer them before our meeting.”

“Homework?” I ask with a wide smile, a rare moment where I find real amusement. “And I got paid for doing them. Why do people complain about being an adult?”

She almost giggles at my play but keeps herself cool and professional. “3pm tomorrow, at the University of Social Sciences and Humanities, Thu Duc Campus. We’ll meet at lecture hall six. You can find the school layout right at the gate.”

“I’m extremely busy… so can I get your number? I’ll confirm again tonight.”

She blinks twice, considering my slick move or contemplating a polite refusal? “Email is fine.” Then she gives me her business card. She deliberately holds it when I’m about to take it. “I’ll ask you very private questions to support my thesis so you might feel like I’m dissecting your old wounds so be prepared, Harry.”

As long as it’s not about Brooke, I think. “I’m always prepared.” I take the card and wave it as I walk away. It has a phone number, perhaps her business one. That’s close enough. The seed in one pocket securing my future, Elise’s card in the other threatening to unearth my past. Perhaps my few days left in the country can leave me a single beautiful memory, like a rose amidst the thorns.

Next

Intro & Index

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Strategic Narrative Reconstruction—Harry Nguyen has lived his life by the words without knowing it. To the world, he is a brilliant botanical researcher on the verge of a global breakthrough with a revolutionary DNA-helix seed. To the underworld of Saigon, he is a former master forger for the Jade Dragon gang, a man who paid for his “freedom” with two toes and a lifetime of scars.

The siege begins with the scent of jasmine and the click of a recorder. When his girlfriend Brooke dies under the red light of an altar, Harry believes he has finally outrun his past. But then comes Elise Truong, a forensic psychologist who offers to pay for the right to dissect his trauma. What starts as a clinical interview quickly devolves into a high-stakes “collaborative fiction,” as Harry and Elise become bound by shared lies, a mysterious blackmailer, and a violent ambush in the rain.

In a city where loyalty is a variable and the rain feels like a personal betrayal, Harry’s mental fortress is under fire. As he navigates a landscape of “Long Siege” tactics—from the “poisonous teeth” of corrupt police to the vengeful ghosts of his childhood—he must confront the truth about the woman who raised him and the girl he supposedly felt in love.

Is the revolutionary seed Harry carries a symbol of rebirth, or is his hope merely a pathology? As the final storm hits Saigon, Harry Nguyen must decide if he is the editor of his future or just a boy standing at the beginning of the end.

Prologue:

20 June

Medical emergency, what’s your situation? Sir? Sir?

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “It… It’s my girlfriend. She’s not responding.”

Is she breathing? Please check her pulse. It’s right behind the ears.

“Yes, yes, but she’s choking. I.. I don’t know, I think she’s OD. Come fast, please.”

State your address and please keep her lying on her back.

“Two—No, excuse me,” Breathe, Harry, breathe. I gulped for air, greedily. “346 LHP District 5. Not District 10, Google Maps confused about it. Ward 14!”

Yes, sir.

“Second floor, go left after the stairs, apartment Two-O-Three.”

Talk to her, CPR if she stops breathing.

“Hurry!” I threw my phone on the bed and it bounced from the mattress to the wall, my first mistake. But I didn’t even care because lying in the center of this chaos was Brooke. She lay pale under the red light of the altar. Her body was limp, one arm draped over her stomach, one clawed at her throat, a desperate attempt to gag out death. I knelt, my hand was shaking so bad I could barely hold it to her lips. Nothing. No breath. Just the ghost of her laugh from the beach, a sound that used to bring color to my monochrome. Now it was just... gone. And the certainty of it was a dark maw, sucking the life right out of this room, out of me. The incense hung heavy, a false prayer in the air. Don’t feel. Look. Just look away and think. It was the only chant that kept myself from screaming.

It hit me all at once when I looked. Her room was a mess, every identity she tried on and threw off. The silk blouse for the job interview she hated, the ripped jeans for the concert. The beads and buttons were all her unfinished projects, her ambitions scattered like confetti of broken dreams. The books were her temporary escapes that also ultimately failed, and now it was all just quiet. The chaos had finally stilled for the mind that made it, was gone. Brooke, Bich Tuyen, her beautiful name once a pleasure to think about, had turned into another memory of my misery.

This wasn’t the first time I’d seen death. But you could never get accustomed to it. Her hair fanned out like a dark halo, strands of it catching on a stray string of pearlescent beads. Her eyes were closed, the lashes dark against her cheeks. And there, amidst her crooked fingers, the red beading cord, our only couple item. The red cord twisted like Aunty Three’s guardian tattoo, a reminder of the chains I’d broken, or thought I had. I yanked my own samsara bracelet and let them scatter around the room, to join Brooke’s, my second mistake. But then I realized I shouldn’t let them rot in the evidence room. They belonged to us, our memories, our passion, our proof. This mistake, I could fix.

The siren finally reached my ears, and soon, it would be followed by another siren with a different rhythm, the police wail. I stood limp, and the pink sky of the stormy night hummed behind barred windows. The rain began to patter on the old porch, indistinguishable with the hurry thuds of medical attendants. The incense faded, replaced by the raw scent of rising petrichor, and I stepped over the mess to open the thumping door.

Index:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

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