The neon lights of Chinatown cast everything in shades of red and gold as I walked the narrow streets alone, my enhanced senses drinking in every detail. It was past midnight, three hours after I'd dropped Carter and Lee off at their respective hotels with promises to reconvene in the morning. They thought I was going home to sleep. Instead, I was hunting.
The knowledge from the Rush Hour movies had given me a roadmap to Juntao's network, but experiencing Chinatown in person revealed layers of complexity the films had never captured. Every restaurant, every shop, every narrow alley could be a front for criminal activity. The challenge was distinguishing between legitimate businesses and those that served darker purposes.
I paused outside a small herb shop that looked innocuous enough—dried roots and mysterious powders displayed in the window, with Chinese characters I couldn't read despite Marcus Chen's apparent fluency. But something felt wrong about the place. The security camera pointed at an odd angle, the light in the back room that suggested activity despite the late hour, and most telling of all, the subtle chemical smell that my enhanced senses picked up beneath the medicinal herbs.
This is it, I thought, recognizing the location from the movie. This was where Carter, Lee, and I were supposed to have our first encounter with Sang's men. But I was here alone, three hours ahead of schedule, and armed with knowledge they couldn't suspect.
The question was: what was I going to do with that advantage?
I circled the block, noting the exits and approaches, the pattern of foot traffic, and the other businesses that might serve as cover. My body moved with fluid efficiency, every step calculated to avoid detection while gathering maximum information. The Silat training embedded in my muscles made urban reconnaissance feel natural, like a deadly dance I'd been practicing my whole life.
As I completed my circuit, I spotted them—three men in dark clothing positioned at strategic points around the herb shop. They were trying to look casual, but my enhanced awareness picked up the telltale signs: the way they avoided looking directly at each other, the positioning that covered all approaches to the shop, and most obviously, the bulges under their jackets that suggested concealed weapons.
Juntao's men. They were conducting surveillance, probably expecting some kind of police response to whatever was happening inside the shop.
I felt that dark current stirring again—Mad Dog's influence whispering that I could eliminate all three before they knew what hit them. The knowledge of how to do it was right there, detailed and precise. Strike the first one's throat to prevent him from calling out, use his falling body to mask my approach to the second, then finish the third before he could draw his weapon. Clean, efficient, silent.
The urge was almost overwhelming. These men were criminals, probably killers themselves. Taking them out would cripple part of Juntao's operation and potentially save innocent lives down the line. It would be justice, wouldn't it?
I forced myself to step back from that precipice, my hands trembling slightly from the effort. This wasn't a movie where violence was consequence-free entertainment. These were real people, and killing them would make me a murderer, regardless of my justifications.
But I couldn't just walk away either. If I was right about this being a drug processing facility, then innocent people in the neighborhood were at risk. And somewhere in the city, Soo Yung was still being held captive by the same organization these men served.
I needed information, not bodies.
The decision made, I moved closer to the herb shop, using my enhanced agility to scale a fire escape on the adjacent building. From the second-floor window, I had a clear view into the shop's back room, and what I saw confirmed my suspicions.
Four men were working at a table covered with plastic bags containing white powder, scales, and packaging materials. It was a classic drug operation—cutting and packaging what was probably heroin for street distribution. One of the men was talking on a cell phone, his agitated gestures suggesting he was receiving orders from someone higher up the chain.
I pulled out my own phone and started taking pictures, being careful to capture faces and details that could be used as evidence. The photos were grainy in the low light, but they would be enough to establish probable cause if we could get them to the right people.
As I watched, the man on the phone hung up and said something to the others that made them stop working. They began packing up their operation with practiced efficiency, clearly preparing to abandon the location. Someone had tipped them off.
The FBI, I realized. Johnson or Whitney must have leaked information about increased police activity in Chinatown. They were protecting their assets by warning them to relocate.
I watched the men load bags of drugs and equipment into boxes, mentally cataloging everything I could see. One of them opened a safe hidden behind a false panel in the wall, removing stacks of cash and what looked like documents. As he did, I caught a glimpse of something that made my blood run cold—a photograph of Soo Yung taped to the inside of the safe door.
This wasn't just a drug operation. This was a direct connection to the kidnapping.
The man with the photograph noticed me watching through the window at the same moment I saw him. Our eyes met for a split second, and I saw his mouth open to shout a warning.
I didn't think. My body moved on instinct, dropping from the fire escape and crashing through the shop's back door before any of them could react. The enhanced reflexes that had been a liability in normal situations became an asset in combat—everything slowed down, allowing me to process multiple threats simultaneously.
The first man reached for his gun. I was on him before he could clear leather, my elbow striking his solar plexus with enough force to lift him off his feet. He collapsed, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The second man had his weapon halfway out when my knee connected with his wrist, the snap of breaking bone audible even over his scream. The gun clattered to the floor as he cradled his ruined hand.
The third man was smarter—instead of going for his gun, he grabbed a cleaver from the counter and swung it at my head. I ducked under the blade and swept his legs, sending him crashing into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.
The fourth man—the one who'd seen the photograph—had managed to draw his pistol and was bringing it to bear on me when something primal took over. The Mad Dog influence that I'd been fighting surged forward, and suddenly I wasn't thinking about restraint or consequences. I was moving with lethal precision, every technique designed to kill rather than incapacitate.
My hand shot out, fingers extended like a spear, and struck the man's throat just below his Adam's apple. The gun dropped from nerveless fingers as he collapsed, clutching his throat and making horrible choking sounds.
For a moment, I stood in the wreckage of the room, surrounded by four men who were either unconscious or dying, and felt a surge of savage satisfaction. This was what I was capable of. This was the power that had been given to me.
Then I saw the blood on my hands and the terror in the eyes of the man I'd struck in the throat, and the reality of what I'd done crashed over me like a wave.
I'd nearly killed him. Another few pounds of pressure, a slightly different angle, and he would have been dead instead of just badly injured. The knowledge of exactly how to make that happen had been right there, ready and waiting.
What am I becoming?
I forced myself to focus on the immediate situation. The man with the throat injury needed medical attention, but calling an ambulance would bring police attention I couldn't afford. I checked his pulse—weak but steady—and positioned him so he could breathe more easily.
The photograph from the safe lay on the floor where it had fallen during the fight. I picked it up, studying Soo Yung's innocent face and feeling a surge of determination that had nothing to do with my borrowed memories or enhanced abilities. This was about saving a child, regardless of the cost to my soul.
I quickly searched the room, gathering the documents from the safe, the bags of drugs, and the cell phone the first man had been using. Evidence that could potentially lead us to Soo Yung or expose the corruption in the FBI.
As I prepared to leave, I looked back at the four men I'd left broken and bleeding. In the movie, this would have been a triumphant moment—the hero striking a blow against the forces of evil. But standing in that herb shop, smelling blood and fear, I felt nothing but a growing certainty that I was losing myself in the violence.
The worst part was how easy it had been. How natural it felt to hurt people when I had the justification of a greater good.
I slipped out the back door and into the maze of Chinatown's alleys, the evidence bag clutched in my hands and the weight of my actions settling on my shoulders like a lead blanket. Somewhere behind me, sirens were beginning to wail—one of the men had managed to call for help, or perhaps the neighbors had reported the disturbance.
By morning, Carter and Lee would want to know what I'd learned during my "research" into the case. I would have to find a way to share the information I'd gathered without revealing how I'd obtained it or what it had cost me to get it.
But as I walked through the neon-lit streets, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd crossed a line tonight. The Marcus Chen who'd woken up this morning would never have brutally assaulted four men, regardless of their crimes.
The question was: who was I becoming, and would there be enough of my original self left to matter when this was all over?
The answer, I feared, was something I didn't want to discover.