Chapter 9 Ares
Ares
The blindfold seems like overkill.
Even after someone unties it, Ares has to squint into the darkness to get his bearings. He’d done his best to pay attention
as Sangui led him through a series of twisted alleys, then deep underground, counting his own footsteps down the stairs, but
otherwise, there’d be no way to tell where he is, or even what time of day it is.
A single, dying light bulb flickers above him, illuminating little except the empty boxing ring just ahead and the blood splatters
on the floor.
He feels a frisson of fear. Sangui had refused to breathe a word about what to expect once they came down to the Cave, had
simply grunted at him to keep walking. But what has he walked into, exactly?
“Welcome,” Sangui says, tossing the blindfold over his shoulder, where it drops to the floor like a dead snake.
“I’m sure you’re eager to get started, so I’ll keep it short.
The Cave is run by Long Ge. By tradition, Long Ge will only appear at the Cave in person to congratulate the fight club’s winner—whoever wins five rounds in a row—and offer them a favor. ”
“A favor?” Ares repeats, his head spinning with the possibilities.
“Just one,” Sangui tells him. “Usually the winners will ask for money, or drugs, or a job through Long Ge’s connections. Up
to you.”
This is why the vision had led him here, Ares realizes. He’s almost certain of it. He can feel it deep in his gut, that he’s
closer than he’s ever been before. Long Ge is the key to his brother.
“Don’t look too excited,” Sangui says. “If you want to join the Cave, there are two rules.” He holds up his hand, covered
in the same black glove he’d worn last time, and lists them off. “One, do as you’re told. No matter what we tell you. And
two, never fight outside the ring. You got it?”
Dread stirs in the pit of Ares’s stomach, but he forces himself to nod.
“So if I tell you to punch, you punch,” Sangui says, with a twisted smile that makes his face appear more foxlike than ever.
“If I tell you that you can’t fight back, you don’t. Like right now.”
That’s the only warning Ares gets before Sangui shoves him.
His immediate instinct is to shove back, to defend himself, but Sangui’s orders flash through his head. He can’t fight back.
So he lowers his fists and just takes it, the full weight of the attack, lets himself fall onto the cement floor, the impact
so loud it echoes through his bones. There’s a surreal, muted quality to everything as he lies there, barely breathing, his
heart thudding in his ears. He sees the black flash of a boot right before he feels it, slamming hard into his rib cage.
Pain explodes through him.
He gasps out. He could reach up and seize the man’s leg, flip him over. It wouldn’t be so difficult—
But he can’t.
“Don’t fight back,” Sangui had told him, and he needs to obey, needs to prove himself. Needs to secure his entry into the Cave and find his brother.
And as Sangui raises his boot again, Ares squeezes his eyes shut. Might as well let the pain come, he thinks. Consider it a tithe; consider it punishment for losing his brother to begin with.
The pain does come, in a blazing blow to his stomach.
He doubles over, coughing, clutching at what will be a new bruise tomorrow. His mind scrabbles for logic, solid reasoning,
something tangible to ground himself. He’s heard of rituals like this before. Frat hazing. Pledging. Mental and physical tests
designed to overwhelm you, to push you to your limits, see just how badly you want to join. And he wants this more than anything.
Maybe Sangui can sense it, or maybe he’s simply grown bored of the kicking. There’s only so much satisfaction to be derived
from fighting someone who can’t fight back.
“Get up,” Sangui orders. His voice sounds funny. Distorted and too loud, like he’s speaking into an old microphone.
Ares opens his eyes slowly, the single light bulb blurring in his vision until he can see five or six of them, floating over
him. He flexes his fingers, steadying himself against the cold cement, even as his muscles scream at him to stay still. But
a good boxer always gets up, no matter how badly it hurts. You don’t let pain stop you. You don’t let anything stop you.
“Wait here,” Sangui commands.
He’s stupid enough to hope that it’s over, he’s passed the test, when Sangui returns with what looks like a penguin mascot costume.
Ares blinks hard, willing the scene to make sense. Has he suffered a concussion?
“Cute, right?” Sangui says, throwing the fluffy penguin head at him.
He catches it just in time, the sudden movement sending another bolt of agony racing up his side. Wincing, he stares down
at the penguin’s cartoonish, long-lashed eyes, the cheerful yellow of its plush beak. It really is a costume, with the tiniest holes to breathe and see through.
Sangui grins at him. “Put it on.”
“Are you kidding?” he says, then immediately clamps his mouth shut. Total loyalty. Total compliance. That’s what Sangui had
asked for. So he slides the penguin head on—it’s heavier than he imagined, and the inside smells like cheap plastic—and looks
toward Sangui for further instructions.
“How absolutely adorable,” Sangui says, his grin widening. “Now, follow me.”
Ares has to give credit where it’s due: Sangui is creative with his methods of torture.
During the first few hours, he couldn’t understand the purpose of standing on the side of a street in a penguin costume, other
than for Sangui’s entertainment. The only instructions he’d received were “Don’t move from this spot until I tell you to.” It had seemed absurd, but still simple enough.
But then the sun climbs higher and higher, bearing down upon him like a drill, and more crowds surge through the old hutong districts, children running toward him, squealing, their little fingers sticky from their melting Popsicles or tanghulus.
The influencers start showing up, accompanied by either hired photographers or well-trained boyfriends, and they block up the pedestrian lanes to pose next to him.
“Oh, the penguin is so cute,” they coo, taking turns hugging him or grabbing his arms—well, his flippers. None of them even bothers to ask for permission.
His scowl is hidden beneath the penguin’s smile.
Under ordinary circumstances, this would already be too much for him. He hates ridiculous costumes, he hates strangers, he
hates taking pictures, and he hates people putting their dirty hands on him. But after the beating, he realizes that Sangui
has concocted the perfect recipe for suffering. His bruised ribs ache, desperate for a reprieve, a place to rest. The heat
is inescapable, trapping him inside the costume, his sweat stinging his open cuts. And he’s gone so long without eating that
he now feels nauseous from hunger. He can’t stop himself from eyeing every single person who passes him with food: little
glass jars of Beijing yogurt, crumbling brown sugar biscuits, fluffy pork buns, bags of roasted chestnuts . . .
He loses track of how long he’s been standing there. His head feels too light, the weight of the costume too heavy, his knees
buckling beneath him.
Don’t move until he tells you to, he repeats to himself.
He can see Sangui across the street from him, resting happily beneath the shade of an oak tree, cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth, and he feels a vicious bolt of resentment.
If only he could hit back, he was certain he’d knock the man down in seconds—
No. Remember your brother.
Hold on just a little longer.
“How about over here, Chanel? The lighting’s better.”
He jerks his head up at the name as if he’s been zapped awake.
Chanel. Chanel Cao.
She barely seems real as she approaches him from the sidewalk, a man with a massive professional camera following close behind.
Her hair burns gold in the light, bouncing over her shoulders in glossy waves. A glittering tiara sits atop her head, something
that ought to look theatrical or even tacky—but somehow, on her, it’s an elevated piece, a fashion statement. As if all the
people who aren’t wearing tiaras are the ones missing something.
He thinks involuntarily of the photo she had sent him last night. Was it a pretty photo? Objectively, yes. Was it a suggestive
photo? This, he’s less sure about. And if it was, what was she suggesting? Or did it mean nothing, and he was reading too much into it? Or is that exactly what she wants him to think? Another one of her tricks, concealing her true motives from him.
Either way, it had felt safest not to reply, to just wait until Monday and give her the bracelet at school. To not think about
her at all.
Yet here she is, smiling up at him.
He’s grateful, all of a sudden, for the stupid penguin costume. The freedom to just look back at her, absorb the full force
of her smile without her knowing it’s him.
“Yes, you should get a photo with the penguin,” the photographer suggests. “You can add it to the end of your prom nomination post—it’s cute, it’s down-to-earth. Your fans will love it.”
This man offering suggestions on how to appear down-to-earth might be the least down-to-earth thing Ares has ever heard. But
that aside—is that why Chanel’s wearing the tiara? For a prom photo shoot of some kind? He remembers the look in her eyes
when she’d spoken about prom. Gushed about it, like it was all that mattered to her.
“Would you mind if I took a photo with you?” Chanel asks him. She’s the first person who has. Her voice is sweet, gentle,
and she doesn’t immediately crowd in like the others, just waits for him to reply.
Ares manages to nod.
“Oh my god, thank you so much,” Chanel says, still speaking directly to him. She steps closer and turns toward him, squeezing
two fingers together to form a mini heart, the way idols like to pose. He experiences a terrible pang of self-consciousness,
and he has to remind himself again that she can’t see who he is.
The camera lens focuses on them.
Click. Click-click.
“Perfect,” the photographer says. “I think we’re done. You’re going to look so gorgeous at prom—your date’s a very lucky man.”
Chanel just smiles, a close-lipped expression that could mean anything but gives away nothing, and Ares wonders if she has her date secured already.
Tries to picture it, one of the guys from their class showing up to her house in a tailored suit and expensive cologne.
Feels a strange twist in his stomach at the thought.
Can’t imagine why, it’s not like he wants to be in their position.
He’d already made it clear to her he wasn’t going to prom at all.
“Hang on.” Chanel motions for him to wait, then runs off to the milk tea shop on the street corner. She jogs with surprising
nimbleness in her stilettos, her movements light and graceful as a fairy’s; he almost expects her to leave glitter in her
wake. A few minutes later, she comes back holding a large cup of lemon tea and offers it to him, ice cubes clinking inside
the plastic. “Here. You must be hot in that costume,” she says, still smiling.
It’s a simple gesture, but Ares feels entirely unmoored by it. Chanel Cao doesn’t just feed stray dogs—she feeds penguin mascots
too? Or is this an act, more social media content for her to post to seem “down-to-earth” or thoughtful or whatever she wants her brand to be? Yet, when he searches her eyes, he can’t detect anything except sincerity.
And he is unbearably hot; he can feel the heat festering in his wounds, the sweat plastering his shirt to his back. His throat is so
dry it hurts.
Cautiously, he accepts the tea from her. He’s not defying any orders like this, he reasons. He hasn’t moved from the spot
where Sangui left him.
“Thanks again for taking the photos with me,” Chanel says, and reaches up to pat his head.
Ares hadn’t expected to find any semblance of comfort today. But for this one brief second, he forgets his pain, his hunger,
his exhaustion, his humiliation, and lowers his head, letting himself lean in to her touch.