The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Gordon slung the shoulder bag over one arm, the weight of report pressing against his side. He stepped into the rain, where townhomes lined the street, their wet facades gleaming under evening light. A dry cleaner and a corner grocer marked one end of the block; his own two-story house sat in the middle—ordinary, unremarkable. But his senses sharpened at the slow crawl of a familiar patrol car. It turned the corner, he knew its presence was more than coincidence.

A sharp honk yanked him from his thoughts. Bullock's car rolled up to the curb, the man behind the wheel glaring impatiently.

"Get in," Bullock called, his voice gruff and casual.

"What are you doing here?" Gordon asked, suspicion edging his tone.

"The precinct's crawling with press, which means parking's a bitch," Bullock grumbled.

Gordon wasn't convinced. "I prefer to drive."

"Yeah, and I'd prefer if you were a tall blonde with massive tits, but that shit ain't happening," Bullock snapped.

Gordon pressed his lips into a thin line, exhaling slowly. He rounded the car and slid into the passenger seat. Bullock gunned it, heavy on the gas. In the side mirror, Gordon spotted the patrol car creeping back into the neighborhood. His stomach knotted—though it could've just been Bullock's driving. It was maniacal.

Curses fell from Bullock's mouth as rapid as the rain. When a truck blocked his way, he rolled down the window and hurled a creative string of profanities. Gordon watched with mild amazement as Bullock continued muttering even after rolling it back up.

"You keep eyeballing me like that, you won't have eyes by the end of the night," Bullock said.

Gordon inhaled, heavy and measured. He clicked his seatbelt, noting Bullock's damp shirt, wet hair, and the oddly dry gun holster. In the backseat, a coat, suit jacket, and shoulder bag lay in a heap.

"How do you want to do this?" Gordon asked, steering the conversation.

Bullock shot him a look. "How—? Jesus fucking Christ, you sound like a hooker I just picked up."

Gordon sighed, bracing himself. It was going to be a long night. "I've got a missing person's report that matches my victim."

"Alright, so we're doing a house call. Where am I headed?" Bullock muttered.

"The report just says 516 Durian, but I couldn't find a street called Durian."

"Durian's one of the Trees," Bullock replied, yanking the wheel for a sharp turn.

Gordon clenched the grab handle, steadying himself. "The Trees?"

"Those ugly-ass concrete towers in East Uptown," Bullock said, jabbing a thick finger eastward. "You can't miss 'em—look like goddamn prisons—they speak English?" 

"English and Vietnamese, according to the report."

"We can call for a translator. They'll send a blue who speaks it."

"No," Gordon said. "I don't want the neighborhood cops."

"And if the family doesn't speak English?"

"We'll manage."

"I'll call 'em." Bullock reached for the radio, but Gordon clicked it off.

"No. The neighborhood doesn't trust them."

"No one fucking trusts cops," Bullock grumbled, clicking it back on.

Gordon shut it off again. "The cops there double the dues that businesses owe, they also arrest and release for cash. I don't want to use them."

Bullock gave him a long stare. "How the fuck do you know all that?"

"It's what I heard."

"From who?"

"Doesn't matter. Am I wrong?"

Bullock didn't answer.

By the time they reached Little Saigon, the rain was a steady assault, drumming against the windshield in relentless sheets. Bullock eased to the curb and cut the engine. The Durian Building loomed ahead—silent, but watchful.

Inside, the lobby pulsed with low conversation, the shuffle of feet, the occasional murmur too hushed to catch. But as Bullock and Gordon stepped through the doors, the noise thinned, like a room inhaling before a storm. Eyes followed them—wary, unblinking. In the corner, a man in a tattered velvet armchair rose, his gaze dragging over them in a slow, deliberate once-over, like he was memorizing their faces for later.

"Excuse us," Gordon said, maneuvering through the throng. 

Bullock stayed silent, but the crowd grudgingly parted, their faces drawn tight with suspicion. Gordon stabbed the elevator button, his gaze flicking over the lobby as he waited. Bags slumped on dollies and shopping carts, while others clutched thick, battered suitcases like lifelines. When the doors finally slid open, they stepped inside. No one followed. 

"That was odd, right?" Gordon asked.

"Not really," Bullock said flatly. "Two white guys in cheap suits. At this hour. In this part of Uptown. They knew we were cops."

"I meant them all loitering in the lobby with bags, and carts."

"They're Asian. They all do fucking weird shit." Bullock muttered like it was an answer. 

Gordon sighed heavily through his nostrils.

"Keep that shit up," said Bullock.

The elevator slid open to a dim hallway, its walls dull, the air thick with evening meals. When they reached room 516, Bullock raised a fist and hammered on the door. Gordon caught his arm, shooting him a look before knocking more measured.

There was shuffling and muffled whispers in Vietnamese. Gordon leaned in, catching fragments of the conversation. He spoke in Vietnamese. It was clunky. The door cracked open, revealing an elderly man with sharp, suspicious eyes. Gordon held up his badge.

"We're here about your granddaughter, Annh."

A woman's voice called from inside. After a brief exchange, the door opened wider. An elderly woman with grey wispy hair appeared, repeating "Annh" as she waved them in.

Bullock entered first, eyes scanning the cramped space. Gordon nudged him, nodding toward the coat rack. With a grunt, Bullock shrugged off his trench coat and hat, mindful of the puddle forming beneath it.

The narrow hallway led to two cramped bedrooms and a full bath before opening into a small living room. The walls were sparsely decorated, and the place smelled faintly of cooking oil. A flickering TV bathed the worn couch and coffee table in dim, uneven light. The old woman cleared a space on the couch and gestured for them to sit before vanishing into the kitchen.

In the hallway, the old man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching in silence.

Bullock nudged Gordon. "You speak Vietnamese?"

"Just a few phrases."

The woman returned with a tray of tea. She spoke rapidly, gesturing for them to drink.

"Thao?" Gordon asked, she nodded.

"Quan." said Thao, pointing to her husband.

Gordon introduced himself and Bullock, then nodded in thanks as he accepted the tea, taking a careful sip. Bullock did the same. The old woman offered a faint smile and spoke again. Gordon caught a familiar word—"Cai."

"Annh's sister?" Gordon asked gently.

"Soon," she said.

"How do you say thank you?" Bullock nudged him again.

"Cam on," Gordon said.

Bullock repeated the words awkwardly, his attempt drawing a smirk from Gordon and a bemused glance from their hosts. The tension in the room thinned, if only for a breath. Gordon took another sip of tea, his gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the last light of day bled into the coming night.

Across the Gotham River, a two-lane highway traced the mainland's edge. Beyond it, a cemetery stretched in quiet repose, its mausoleums standing like silent sentinels. Further on, a walled estate sprawled across nearly two-hundred acres, its private lake as black as the dense forest enclosing it. At its heart, a mansion stood—an English country estate twisted into something darker. Its gothic spires knifed into the sky, jagged as broken teeth, a grim echo of the Pinkney buildings rising within the city. 

On the manor's ground level, a vast kitchen stretched into silence. Only a small section showed signs of use—a warm kettle resting on a gas burner.

At the butcher block, a man in a crisp gray three-piece suit stood with quiet authority, engrossed in a newspaper. His thick, dirty blond hair was streaked with silver. He flipped open a silver pocket watch, checked the time, then snapped it shut with a soft click before raising his teacup for a slow, deliberate sip.

Beneath the estate, a cavern stretched half its length, a shadowed expanse carved from ancient stone. Stalactites hung like dagger tips, glistening in the dim artificial glow. A car sat beneath a tarp, its silhouette long and sleek, and nearby, a black aircraft—predatory in design, built for two but flown only by one—rested on a runway that vanished into a chasm of darkness.

Deeper inside, a dressing room and bathroom where a shower cut off with a sharp hiss. Just beyond, a wall of monitors flickered—some streaming silent news broadcasts in pale light, others scrolling endless lines of green code. Before them stretched a command station, a motherboard of keyboards, switches, and levers. To the side, a steel workbench stood lined with vials of liquid, their contents glinting under the cold glow of the screens. 

A white timer sat nearby, ticking steadily until its sharp ring cut through the silence. A gloved hand silenced it with a precise motion. Wrapped around the forearm was a gauntlet—blacker than night—with three razor-edged blades extending along its length. The hand lifted a vial, steady and deliberate.