Wufan hesitated at Zitao’s question. A battle raged inside his mind briefly – was telling him everything really a good idea?

Zitao had a right to know, Wufan knew that much. He also knew, however, that a couple of words to the wrong person meant game over. No second chances.

He sighed.

“Huang Zitao, sit down.” Wufan prompted tiredly, feeling more like a storytelling grandfather than a 24 year old man.

Zitao frowned slightly but sat anyway, sensing the answer to his question would be a bit longer than he expected.

When Wufan opened his mouth to speak, however, he realised telling his story wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he’d expected.

“Well, I… I was- no, am! I’m part of a gang,” Wufan announced, and he was surprised to find he didn’t want to look at Zitao’s expression, afraid of seeing contempt or disgust and expecting to be kicked out the door at any moment.

But Zitao just sat quietly on the floor, wide-eyed and attentive as he listened to Wufan.

“I got in a fight and it just went wrong, I guess.”

The sentence hung in the air uncomfortably for a few moments before Zitao broke it with a question.

“Well… Do you know how to fight?”

“Of course I do.” Wufan replied a little snappishly, his pride unreasonably wounded. “If I couldn’t fight do you think I’d still be alive right now?”

Zitao stared at him in that moment and realised he should have noticed Wufan wasn’t your average city guy ages ago. His expression was fierce, his scowl was dangerous, and his body, although slightly underfed, was lean and muscled. This was a man whose aura radiated danger and strength. He looked fierce and wild, Zitao decided, but not in an entirely bad way. He had no knowledge of the workings of gangs or anything like that, but Zitao, the sheltered city boy, decided there and then that his new friend Wufan – Kris – deserved better.

“Like a tiger in a glass box,” he murmured half to himself. Fierce and wild, but trapped.

“What?”

“Nothing. But why were you in a gang? You seem like a great guy,” Zitao offered hesitantly.

“I…” Wufan paused.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to!” Zitao replied hastily.

“No, it’s all right.” Wufan reassured him.

“I grew up in the slums far away from here,” he began.

Zitao nodded slowly. He knew of those slums, everyone knew about them. As a younger child his mother had warned him about the dangerous people that lived there, filthy criminals festering in the run-down buildings like rats in a rotting sewer.

“Up until I was ten, life was okay. We were poor, but my father always seemed to manage to bring home enough food to ward off complete starvation. I didn’t attend school, but one of the elderly men in the complex taught us to read and write right up until the day he died.”

Zitao didn’t move or utter a sound, transfixed on the story.

“When I was about ten years old my father went to work in the morning and didn’t come back.”

“What happened to him?” Zitao asked in a small voice, predicting it was nothing good from Wufan’s tone.

“Died.” Wufan said quietly, staring off into nothing. “He got into a scrap with a few gang members over some food he’d bought from the markets. He had no weapons, He was undernourished, and he was tired. It wasn’t even a contest.”

Wufan fell silent, raw grief marring his expression. Zitao looked stunned.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. “Do… do you want to stop now? It’s okay if you do, I’ve heard enough, you-“

“No.” Wufan interrupted, drawing himself up to sit straight. “I’m fine.”

“We didn’t know anything about what had happened to him for so long. I spent most of my time wandering, searching for food. As the days kept passing and my mother and I grew hungrier and hungrier I turned to stealing.”

“The first food I ever stole was a handful of crackers, snatched from a street vendor before the guy had time to realise what was going on. As time went on I got better and better at stealing from stalls and markets, but there were some close calls.”

Zitao shuffled in his spot. “When did you end up joining the gang?”

Wufan frowned. “Probably about a month after my father first disappeared. I had swiped an armful of pork buns into a bucket right as the owner of the stall turned around and he chased me within an inch of my life. I had to run into the nearest alleyway to escape him and once I was in there I was completely lost.”

“I was wandering around aimlessly looking for the way out when I bumped into three men coming the other way. They were curious to know who I was and where I was from, but what really interested them was the bucket of stolen pork buns.”

Zitao tipped his head to the side, willing him to continue.

“They asked me where I’d gotten them from, and I told them the truth, that I stole them from a street vendor. Then these three men who had previously seemed so intimidating crouched down and asked why I stole the food. I was lost and I missed my mother and my father so I just told them everything, and broke down into tears.”

“They were nice enough to take me back home again, but left with an offer. Or maybe it was more of a warning; I don’t care to recall which.”

Zitao frowned curiously. “What did they tell you?”

Wufan gave a small chuckle. “They promised me and my mother all the food and care in the world, but I would have to give up everything I had and go live with them and their gang. If I didn’t want to join, I was never to be seen, as they put it, on their turf again, turf that conveniently included the stalls and markets I frequented.”

“Why would they be so worried about one little boy stealing from their markets?” Zitao questioned flatly. It seemed unreasonable at best, and at worst, delusional.

“It puts the general public on higher alert, I guess. Maybe they were worried I’d bring more people from the slums in to steal from the markets. Maybe they thought I was a spy, or completely making up my story, or from a different gang. To be honest, I have no idea. It was the last thing on my mind.”

Zitao thought this through and nodded slowly. “But did you take the offer?”

A wry smile twisted its way onto Wufan’s face.

“What else would a starving ten year old do?”