The sun had barely climbed over the Macanese skyline when Juan, Don Eduardo, and Catalina emerged once again into Senado Square. Daylight didn't wash away the ghosts — if anything, it made them more visible. The square, with its wave-patterned tiles and pastel-colored buildings, was waking up. Tourists snapped photos near the fountain. Children chased pigeons near the colonial facade of the Leal Senado building.
But beneath the facade of tranquility, Juan felt it: the tension.
He scanned the crowd. Portuguese signs hung beside Cantonese banners, and over it all, the faint sounds of fado music mixed with Chinese chatter. Macau was a contradiction, a city of layered identity — just like him.
Catalina whispered as they walked. "The House of Smoke is just beyond the Ruins of St. Paul's. Victor's men control that area. We need to move carefully."
They approached the iconic Ruínas de São Paulo, its grand stone façade looming like the broken memory of a forgotten empire. Tourists stood beneath it, smiling for photos, unaware that just behind it, an empire of crime thrived in silence.
Juan paused before the stone steps.
"Gabriel would've liked this place," he muttered. "He was always drawn to stories carved in stone."
Don Eduardo clapped a firm hand on Juan's shoulder. "We will avenge him. Every step we take, hermano, is for him."
Suddenly, a street performer — a masked Cantonese opera singer — stopped mid-performance. His eyes locked with Catalina's. Without a word, he nodded, then continued singing.
Catalina's voice tightened. "That was a signal. They know we're here."
Juan looked up toward the top of the ruins.
Three men in suits stood motionless, watching.
Victor Liang's scouts.
---
Later, Inside the House of Smoke – 10:04 A.M.
The trio slipped into an old Macanese café, tucked inside a back alley behind St. Paul's. It was deceptively charming — red lanterns, carved wood, and a menu written in Portuguese and Cantonese. But underneath, it was a known meeting place for middle-tier triad brokers — the place where deals were whispered and betrayals tasted like bitter espresso.
The café owner, an old Macanese man with a limp, recognized Don Eduardo and let them pass through a hidden door at the back.
Behind it? A smoke-filled gambling den, the real House of Smoke.
Men sat around mahjong tables. Neon dragon lights cast strange shadows on the smoke-clouded walls. Everything smelled of tobacco, sweat, and danger.
"Juan Cariño Hernández," a voice said in accented Spanish.
A man stepped from the back. Mid-40s. Long black coat. Cold, deliberate eyes.
"So you finally brought the Black Deck to my doorstep."
Victor Liang.
Flanked by two armed lieutenants, he stood like a king in his den.
"I didn't come here to hand it over," Juan replied coolly. "I came here to bury it — and everyone who's killed for it."
Victor chuckled.
"So idealistic. You're like your brother."
That name. That wound. Juan's fists clenched.
"I know what you did," he growled. "Gabriel was just a boy. You ordered Señor Lim Tionco to make an example of him."
Victor shrugged, lighting a cigarette. "It was business. You came here thinking revenge would change the world. But in Macau… we're all shadows."
Catalina drew her pistol slowly under the table.
Don Eduardo tapped his cane twice — the signal.
From the entrance, the three Americans entered.
James Smith, Harry Williams, Tommy Brown.
Each carrying heat. Each ready to draw.
Victor's smile faded.
"You brought cowboys into my city?"
Juan lit his cigar. "No, I brought justice."
In one second, everything exploded.
---
Gunfire erupted. Tables flipped. Smoke burst from flashbangs.
Juan leapt across the room, tackling Victor to the ground as bullets ripped through velvet curtains. Tommy Brown opened fire with brutal precision. Smith and Williams held the exit, mowing down Triad guards.
Victor spat blood. "You think you're cleaning this city?"
Juan pinned him down. "No. I'm cleansing myself."
He pulled out the King of Spades card from the Black Deck — Victor's name scribbled on the back in old ink — and shoved it in the man's mouth.
"I hope hell plays poker."
And with a clean shot to the heart — it was done.
---
Moments Later
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Catalina looked at the burning café. "We need to leave. This part of the city will be crawling with cops… and spies."
Don Eduardo nodded. "To Coloane. I know a monastery."
Juan took one last look at the House of Smoke.
Another ghost laid to rest.
But the deck… still had more names.