The Blue Gang base was quiet.

Too quiet.

A year ago, this place had been bustling—phones ringing off the hook, plans on whiteboards, men training, cash and weapons being shuffled in and out like an underground machine built on precision.

Now?

Half of them were slumped on couches, others leaned against the dusty walls. Someone had tossed a crumpled energy drink can into the corner, and it hadn’t moved in days.

"Damn," one of the younger members, Xiao Fei, muttered, flipping a worn coin between his fingers. "When boss was around, we were never this bored."

Ling Bu didn’t look up from where he sat, legs crossed on the table, cigarette hanging lazily from his lips.

"Yeah," muttered another. "Used to be five jobs a week. Now we’re like... part-time crooks."

The others laughed, but it was a hollow sound. Nobody said it out loud, but they all missed him—Fu Jing Rong.

The boss.

The man who had united them, made them powerful, made them feared.

Ling Bu exhaled smoke and let his head fall back against the chair. "Other gangs are starting to talk," he said flatly. "Saying we’re done. Calling us the Ghost Crew."

"They’re not wrong," Xiao Fei muttered. "It’s been a year. Maybe..."

"Don’t." Ling Bu’s voice was sharp now. "He’s not dead. He’s just... not ready yet."

Silence fell again. A thick, heavy silence that nobody dared slice.

Then—suddenly—the silence broke.

Rrrrring.

Everyone flinched as Ling Bu’s phone buzzed violently against the table. He snatched it up, his brows tightening when he saw the caller ID: Unknown.

He answered with a suspicious tone. "Yeah?"

A voice came through. Crisp. Familiar. Low.

"Get ready," it said. "We’re going somewhere."

Ling Bu froze. His fingers went numb. His cigarette dropped onto the table and rolled off the edge.

He blinked rapidly, heart thudding. "Wait. Wh-who is this?"

There was a slight pause.

Then: "You know who it is."

Click.

The line went dead.

Ling Bu stared at the screen for a long second, as if willing it to ring again.

"What happened?" Xiao Fei asked, jumping to his feet. "Who was that?"

Ling Bu swallowed. "Boss..."

"Boss?" another guy scoffed. "Ling Bu, come on. Don’t mess around."

"I swear!" Ling Bu yelled, standing up. "That was his voice. I’d know that voice anywhere. He told us to get ready."

Everyone stood in place, uncertain, caught between disbelief and something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Then—Rrrrring.

Another call. Same number.

Ling Bu picked it up faster than a breath.

"Meet me at Sixth Street," the voice said.

It was unmistakable.

And then—click.

No more words. Just that cold finality.

Ling Bu’s hands were shaking when he lowered the phone.

"Get your gear," he whispered.

"What?"

He looked up, eyes blazing.

"Get. Your. Gear."

....

Ling Bu pulled his jacket tight as they stepped off the train onto Sixth Street, each member of the Blue Gang moving with nervous energy crackling between them.

This was the heart of the city—bright neon, late-night vendors—the kind of place their boss had loved before everything changed. Ling Bu squinted into the shadows beside a sleek black Maybach. His heart thudded.

There he was.

Fu Jing Rong. Leaning casually against the car, cigarette dangling from his fingers, smoke curling around his face in lazy tendrils. The years of silence melted in that moment. Ling Bu’s legs shook.

He had waited an entire year to see him again.

Ling Bu swallowed back a flood of emotion. The others froze beside him, not daring to breathe too loudly. They looked at their boss—once a dazzling celebrity, the kind of face plastered on billboards in every district. He was still dazzling, yes, but slimmer somehow, as if he’d carried the weight of that coma inside him like a secret anchor.

The streetlight hit his angular features just right: high cheekbones, a jawline strong and defined. His suit—dark as midnight—hung flawlessly on his tall, straight frame. Long legs, inch-perfect posture. Everything about him was unsettlingly composed.

Ling Bu’s memory rattled him. He remembered when Fu Jing Rong had walked into their lives—all charisma, fearless smile, magnetic power—when they’d formed the Blue Gang to protect him. Now, seeing the man again, something raw and dangerous flashed in his eyes.

Ling Bu’s eyes welled. Tears burned his vision as the others found their voices in a whisper-shout chorus:

"Boss! Boss! Boss!"

Their jubilant shouts suddenly felt small in the face of the man’s presence. Ling Bu raced forward. His throat burned.

"Boss! You’re... you’re okay?"

Fu Jing Rong looked up slowly. His eyes—dark, unsettling—rested on Ling Bu. For a moment, everything quieted. Then, faint corners of his mouth curled upward.

"I’m fine."

Ling Bu exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Relief washed over him. The others drifted forward, some reaching out to touch their boss’s arms, shoulders, coats, as if to reassure themselves he was real.

"Walking better than you’d expect after a year in a coma," called one of them, half-joking, half-awed.

Fu Jing Rong turned his gaze toward the street, flicking ash from his cigarette.

"I have work to do," he said quietly.

His tone was cold steel under velvet. The joy in the men’s eyes vanished, replaced by curious tension. They straightened up like soldiers called to attention.

"Yes, sir," they murmured in unison, voices low and instant.

Fu Jing Rong flicked the spent cigarette butt into the gutter and crushed it with the heel of his polished shoe. There was something new in his eyes—something darker, less playful, more precise.

Ling Bu noticed it first: the steel under the smile, the no-nonsense aura, a quiet violence. This wasn’t just the boss they loved—it was a man recalibrated.

"The Hua family has something of mine," he said, voice steady, deliberate.

He took a step forward, and they followed. Ling Bu’s chest tightened.

"We are going to retrieve it."

Silence followed that pronouncement. Not disbelief. Not fear exactly. Something else—an unspoken pact. They’d followed him before. They would follow him again—whatever it took.

Ling Bu’s voice came out a whisper. "Yes, boss. We’re with you."

Heads nodded. Each man placed a hand—hidden, respectful—on his jacket, on his own coat, signing an oath in action.

Fu Jing Rong took a long look at them, lips pressed into a line.

"Then let’s get moving."