The Long Siege - Chapter 2

The footage

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I say to my earbud.

“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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