Shots fired. Not the cheerful kind they have in the movies, the kind that makes your heart jump into your throat and leaves your hands shaking.

I arrived at the scene, a dilapidated apartment complex on the outskirts of Hong Kong, to find a small but efficient unit blocked off. The stench of stale garlic and something else, something metallic, hung heavy in the humid air. Police tape fluttered weakly in the breeze, doing little to contain the buzzing energy of the small crowd that had gathered.

"Mr. Li, you're here," a voice crackled through my earpiece. It was my assistant, Sarah, who had gone in first to secure the perimeter. "The family's still inside, recovering. They're eager to talk."

I nodded, pulling up my trench coat despite the heat. The city's noise – the constant roar of traffic, the distant hum of machinery – seemed miles away here, replaced by a tense silence broken only by the occasional siren and my own heavy steps on the cracked pavement.