Marvel Monkey King: CH 2 (Patreon)

The night air of New York City mingled with the thick scent of roasted duck, incense, and exhaust fumes. Neon signs flickered across the busy streets of Jack's Chinatown territory.

Inside a dimly lit tailor shop, Jack sat on a wooden stool.

Aunty Mei, the local seamstress, was aggressively tending to the shallow cuts on his face.

"Ah ah, Aunty, gently," Jack winced, pulling his face back slightly.

Aunty Mei just nudged the iodine stick and cotton pads further into the cut. "Aiyaa, you monkey, can you go one single night without fighting?"

Jack grinned, wincing as the cut stretched. "I was fighting this afternoon though, kekeke."

Aunty Mei could only shake her head. She finally finished cleaning the cuts, then slapped the wound with a firm hand. "There, done."

"Aaww! Kekeke, thanks for being gentle Aunty," Jack said, rubbing his cheek.

Aunty Mei pointed at a set of neatly pressed suits hanging on a rack. "Pick those up. Make sure to wear something proper for Eric's wedding."

Jack hopped off the stool and grabbed the hangers. He held the suit up against his body, admiring his reflection in the mirror. "Wow, who knew I could be so handsome? I'm afraid I will take Eric's spotlight."

Aunty Mei let out a long, heavy sigh. "Go home Jack. You should be more serious. One day, me and the others in the market will leave this world."

Jack let out a loud laugh. "Kekeke, that's dark! Don't worry, I'll fight off any grim reaper that dares to take a step in my territory."

He dropped into a combat stance and threw a quick combination of jabs and hooks, shadowboxing a theoretical grim reaper right there in the tailor shop.

Aunty Mei couldn't help but chuckle at his antics.

After leaving the shop, Jack went on a patrol to check his territory. The night was winding down. His crew was busy patrolling the block, and the local vendors were slowly packing up their food stalls.

Jack walked down the street like he owned it, stopping occasionally to shout unhinged remarks. He complimented a stray cat on its muscular physique, challenged a parking meter to a staring contest, and asked a tired noodle vendor if he ever considered boiling his noodles in Red Bull for extra energy.

It was during this chaotic stroll that he noticed a new stall.

It was incredibly small, tucked into a narrow space between a fish market and a bakery.

Jack casually strolled over, leaning his elbows on the wooden counter. "Never seen you before, old man."

The old man tending the stall had his eyes closed. But as Jack spoke, he slowly turned his head, looking directly at Jack despite his shut eyelids.

"A king without a throne, yet demands to pull the fate threads," the old man said, his voice raspy and ancient.

Jack blinked. "Huh."

"Even a monkey must prove his bravery before he rules the mountain," the old man added mysteriously.

Jack picked his ear and sighed. "Man, you sound like one of those fortune cookie writers who took too much acid. Alright, you can give the money tomorrow to my crew."

It was then that Jack actually looked at what the old man was selling.

The stall was covered in bizarre trinkets. There was a necklace with a creepy black and golden pupil eyeball. Next to it sat a simple bracelet made of a bright red ribbon.

But the most eye-catching item was a single earring. It looked like a tiny, solid stick made of a black rod with intricate gold accents at both ends. It drew Jack's gaze immediately.

He decided to check out the other items first. Jack reached his hand over to grab the red ribbon bracelet.

Smack!

The old man slapped his hand away with a flyswatter pulled from god knows where.

"Hey, the fuck," Jack complained, pulling his hand back.

"That is not your fate to hold," the old man said calmly.

The old man then reached down, picked up the black and gold rod earring, and placed it directly into Jack's open palm.

"Let the thread knot once more," the old man whispered.

Jack stared at the tiny earring in his hand. It felt unusually heavy for its size. "How much for it, old man?"

The old man simply shook his head.

"Naahh, it's my territory. Business is business," Jack insisted.

He dug into his pockets, pulled out a thick wad of dollar bills, and dumped the cash right onto the stall's counter.

"Thanks, I'll bring Eric next time," Jack said, pocketing the earring.

He then turned around and continued his walk home. His voice echoed through the empty streets of Chinatown as he unhingedly sang the theme song to Spongebob Squarepants at the top of his lungs.

…

The following afternoon, the banquet hall was awash in crimson, gold, and the thick warmth of celebration.

The ceremony carried a rhythm split between worlds. Older relatives moved in high-collared silk Cheongsams embroidered with gold thread, their fans fluttering like birds, while younger men from the boroughs lounged in sharp Western suits, checking cuffs and Rolexes. Jasmine tea mingled with the sharp sting of expensive cognac.

At the center of it stood Eric Shen, smiling until his cheeks must have ached as a line of guests pressed forward to offer red envelopes and well-wishes.

Jack cut through the crowd without waiting for ceremony. He threw a heavy arm over Eric's shoulder, nearly spilling the champagne flute in the groom's hand.

"Congratulations, you fuck," Jack grinned, clapping Eric's chest. "No more running the alleys after midnight. Your leash is officially on."

Eric's bride laughed, her red lip lacquer catching the chandelier glow as she reached out to touch Jack's arm. "Thanks, Jack. Eric was really glad you made it. He kept checking his watch, worried you'd skip out."

Jack leaned back, flashing Eric an exaggerated look of pity. "Really? You missed me that much already? Uuww, look at you, getting soft on me."

Eric sighed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "Shut up. I'm just glad you actually put on a suit."

"Kekekeke!" Jack laughed, the sound loud enough to make a nearby table of aunties look over.

Eric's gaze drifted upward, pausing at the side of Jack's face. On his right ear hung a thin, stick-like rod of polished black and gold, dangling loosely under the ballroom lamps.

"Since when do you wear an earring?" Eric asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Since today." Jack struck a model's pose, turning his jawline left and right. "Sharp, right? An old man at the night market handed it over. Well, I threw some cash at him anyway. Dude wouldn't stop rambling about fate and threads and destiny shit."

Eric's expression tightened. The easy warmth in his features slipped into something guarded. "An old man... Did he talk in riddles?"

"Yeah," Jack said, waving a dismissive hand. "Felt like he had some kind of dimention or something."

Eric's wife let out a melodic chuckle. "Dementia, Jack."

Jack snapped his fingers. "Boom. That's the word."

They shared a laugh, yet Jack caught the brief stillness in Eric's posture. A faint shadow passed across the groom's eyes, the quiet recognition of a man who had stepped into the same deep water before. Jack noted it, filed it away, and chose not to press. In Chinatown, men who carried territories kept their ghosts close to their chests. Eric was one of the few people Jack trusted with his back, and that meant respecting the silence between words.

The rest of the night dissolved into noise and liquor.

With the Monkey of Manhattan loose among the tables, the party took on an electric, untamed pulse. Jack led toasts that escalated into drinking competitions, stolen microphone speeches, and chaotic waltzes with older matrons who spent the first half of the dance swatting his hands and the second half laughing until they wheezed. For a few hours, it felt as though the celebration might burn until the weekend ended.

Eventually, the noise thinned.

Outside the hall, the cool Manhattan night swept the pavement clean. Jack sat on the wide stone steps by the entrance. His tie was gone, vanished to whatever corner of the venue had witnessed his worst dance moves, and his left foot was clad only in a wrinkled black dress sock, his dress shoe entirely missing.

Between two fingers, a cigarette burned a slow amber circle into the dark.

"Hey! Number four!" Jack called out lazily toward two of Eric's younger crew members who were hauling folding chairs into the back of a van. "Stack them by threes, not fours! Have some architectural integrity, you savages!"

The boys looked bewildered, nodding politely before doing whatever they wanted anyway. Jack chuckled to himself, content with his imaginary authority.

"There you are."

Jack turned his head. Eric stood at the top of the steps, his jacket unbuttoned, holding a square glass bottle of Jack Daniel's by the neck.

Jack's eyes went wide with theatrical betrayal. "For fuck's sake! You swore to my face there wasn't a single drop of Jack in the whole venue!"

Eric walked down, sitting on the cold step beside him with a faint smirk. "I hid it in the office. If I left it on the bar, you would've drained it before the soup course."

"Smart bastard," Jack muttered, reaching over and snatching the bottle.

He cracked the cap, the metallic seal giving way with a crisp snap. The familiar sweet, harsh scent of charred oak drifted up.

Jack lifted the mouth of the bottle toward his lips.

"Remember the Jack D we used back then?" Eric asked softly, looking out at the quiet asphalt where taxi cabs rolled by like yellow ghosts.

Jack's hand froze in midair.

The amber liquid swayed against the glass. The teasing smirk on his mouth softened, melting into a quiet stillness that rarely touched his features.

His mind slipped backward, down years of smoke, blood, and broken glass, right back to that day…