Chapter 2: Neon and Warning Signs
The humidity had lifted, replaced by a velvet night that clung to the city with a different kind of insistence. Liana had been relentless.
“You’ve been here two weeks and your most exotic adventure is trying durian. That’s not living, that’s a dare,” she’d said, shoving a black silk shirt into his hands at the end of the workday. “Wear this. Meet at the Lau Pa Sat hawker centre at nine. No arguments.”
Now, following her through a narrow alley in Chinatown, the scent of dried seafood and aged incense giving way to the faint thump of bass, Matthew felt a ripple of nervous energy. It was the first time since arriving that he was doing something with no professional purpose. Just a night out.
“This is not a place you find,” Liana said, leading him to a featureless black door nestled between a herbalist and a shuttered calligraphy stall. She pressed a buzzer. A slit opened, a pair of dark eyes assessed them, and the door clicked open.
The sound hit them first. A deep, resonant bassline that travelled up from the soles of his shoes. Then the smell: crushed ice, high-end spirits, a whisper of sandalwood incense fighting a losing battle against the collective warmth of bodies. The space was a revelation. It was a rooftop, but the ceiling was hung with a constellation of low-hanging paper lanterns, casting pockets of golden light and deep shadow. The walls were old brick, woven with creeping jasmine. Couches and low tables were arranged in intimate clusters, looking out over the glittering matrix of the city’s financial district. It felt illicit, magical.
“Mo’s already here,” Liana shouted over the music, leading him to a corner lounge area. “He knows the owner. Gets us the good spot.”
Mo stood by a table, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket beside him. He’d foregone his usual practical cargo pants for dark jeans and a simple grey henley that stretched across his chest and shoulders. In the lantern light, the silver flecks in his stubble glinted. He looked solid, grounded amidst the artifice.
“You came,” Mo said, his voice cutting through the music’s lower register. He handed Matthew a glass of champagne. Their fingers brushed. No spark this time, just the cool condensation on the glass.
“Liana is a persuasive tour guide,” Matthew said, taking a sip. The bubbles were sharp, clean.
“She’s a menace. But her taste in hideouts is impeccable.” Mo’s eyes scanned the room, a photographer’s automatic assessment. “Don’t look now, but the star of Channel 5’s nightly soap opera just walked in. And he’s heading this way.”
Matthew, of course, looked.
The man moving through the crowd had the kind of beauty that created a subtle vacuum. He was tall, with the defined musculature of someone who treated his body as a professional asset. His hair was perfectly tousled, his jaw clean-shaven and sharp. He moved with an actor’s awareness of space, smiling warmly at a few recognitions but his trajectory was clear. He was coming toward their section.
“Brian Pang,” Liana murmured, a note of clinical interest in her voice. “National heartthrob. Rumour has it he likes hearts of all genders, but his public only gets to see half the story.”
Brian reached their area, flashing a brilliant, camera-ready smile at Mo. “Moran. Good to see you. Thanks for the tip on that lens.”
“Brian. No problem. It do the job?”
“Beautifully.” Brian’s eyes, a liquid brown, slid past Mo and landed on Matthew. The smile shifted, became more focused, less performative. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Matthew. Matthew Callahan.” He felt absurdly plain stating his name.
“New in town?” Brian asked, accepting a glass of champagne Mo poured without being asked.
“Recently. From New York.”
“A writer?” Brian’s gaze was intensely present, making Matthew feel like the only person in the noisy room.
“Journalist. With the AP.”
“Ah. You deal in truths.” Brian took a slow sip. “A rare commodity.” His attention was a tangible weight. It was flattering, dizzying. After weeks of feeling like a ghost, to be seen so directly by someone like this… it was a potent injection of validation.
They talked. Or rather, Brian asked questions and Matthew answered, drawn into the orbit of that charisma. Brian spoke of filming, of the strangeness of being known and unknown simultaneously. He was witty, self-deprecating in a careful way. He mentioned an art-house cinema festival, a hidden French film that was playing for one night only.
“You should come,” Brian said, his voice dropping into a more confidential register. “It’s a beautiful film. About secrets.” His eyes held Matthew’s. The subtext was as thick as the humid air outside.
It was then Matthew felt a large, warm hand clamp firmly on his shoulder from behind.
“Matthew. A word.” Mo’s voice was low, close to his ear. It wasn’t a request.
Mo steered him away from the lounge area, past the bar, toward a quieter corridor lined with old movie posters. The music was muffled here.
“What’s up?” Matthew asked, the spell momentarily broken.
Mo turned to face him. His expression was uncharacteristically severe. “You are chatting up Brian Pang.”
“He was chatting me up, I think.”
“Even worse.” Mo ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Look, he’s charming. He’s gorgeous. I get it. He’s also a locked vault with a smile. The man has more layers than a political scandal and half of them are designed to hide the core.”
“You know him?” Matthew felt a defensive prickling. This felt like judgement.
“I’ve photographed him. For a profile. I’ve seen the machine up close. The publicists, the handlers, the careful curation of every single word, every glance. He lives in a gilded cage, and anyone he lets get close gets pulled into the lock-up with him.” Mo stepped closer, his voice a gravelly whisper. “That beautiful disaster will break your heart before sunrise. Not out of malice. Out of sheer, unsustainable physics. The pressure would crush you.”
Matthew stared at him. The intensity of the warning was startling. It felt personal, protective in a way that was completely disproportionate to their acquaintance. “I was just having a conversation, Mo. I’m not signing a blood oath.”
“It starts with a conversation. Then a secret film. Then a hidden dinner. Then you’re someone’s dirty little secret, spending your life in these,” Mo gestured around at the hidden club, “beautiful, shadowy places. Waiting for scraps of his time. Making excuses. And he will never, ever be able to choose you. Not openly. His career, his family, this whole country… it won’t allow it. You just got free of a cage. Don’t walk into a prettier one.”
The words landed with a sickening thud. Because they weren’t just about Brian. They echoed the dynamics with Patrick—the excuses, the compromises, the private humiliations dressed up as necessary discretion. A different cage, but a cage nonetheless.
He saw the genuine concern in Mo’s eyes, the tight line of his jaw. This wasn’t jealousy. It was a frontline report from someone who’d seen the casualties.
Before Matthew could formulate a response, Liana appeared. “There you are. Brian had to run—early call time. He said goodbye.” Her eyes darted between their tense faces. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Matthew said, his voice tight.
“Right.” She didn’t believe him. “Well, I’m going to dance. Either of you care to join?”
Mo held Matthew’s gaze for a second longer, then gave a curt shake of his head. “I need some air.” He turned and walked toward a set of stairs leading to a higher part of the rooftop.
Matthew stood in the corridor, the bass from the main room vibrating in his teeth. He felt untethered. The glittering allure of Brian’s attention now felt tarnished, seen through Mo’s clear, unforgiving lens. He walked back to the lounge area, dejected.
As he sank into the cushions, his hand slid into his pocket. His fingers touched unfamiliar paper. He pulled it out. A crisp, thick business card. On the front, Brian Pang’s agent’s details. On the back, in elegant, precise handwriting, a private mobile number. And beneath it, a single sentence: Call me.
He stared at it. The paper felt heavy. A direct line to fantasy, to danger, to a story he could probably already write the ending of.
He looked toward the stairs where Mo had disappeared. Then back at the number.
The music swelled. The lanterns swayed. In his palm, the card was a tiny, decisive weight. He tucked it back into his pocket, the numbers already burning a hole in the silk lining, a silent, siren call in the dark.
He tucked it back into his pocket, the numbers already burning a hole in the silk lining, a silent, siren call in the dark. The club’s energy, once exhilarating, now felt oppressive and thick. He needed to escape the press of bodies, the weight of decisions not yet made.
He made his way toward the same staircase Mo had used, pushing through a heavy curtain onto a smaller, higher rooftop terrace. The city sprawled before him in a breathtaking grid of light, the Marina Bay Sands complex glowing like some impossibly large, discarded jewel. The music was a dull throb here, secondary to the whisper of traffic far below. He took a deep breath, the air cooler and cleaner, hoping to find Mo.
He was alone.
“A bit grim for a face, given the view.” The voice came from the shadows near the railing. A man stepped into the ambient light, bringing with him the sharp, mineral scent of cigarette smoke. He was effortlessly handsome in a rumpled, expensive way, his dark hair falling just so over one eye. He took a long drag, the ember flaring. “You look like you just lost a winning lottery ticket. Or found one and realized it’s cursed.”
Matthew managed a weak smile. “Something like that.”
“Henry.” He didn’t offer a hand, just leaned against the railing. “I saw you inside. Talking to our national treasure. Brave man.”
“You know Brian?”
“Everyone knows Brian. And Brian knows everyone, but only in the dark.” Henry exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate toward the skyscrapers. “Singapore’s gay scene is a hall of mirrors in a locked room. Everyone’s a reflection of a secret, pretending not to see each other. It’s exhausting. I prefer the direct approach.”
“And what’s that?”
“Discreet property, public pleasure.” Henry’s smile was all white teeth and wicked promise. “My family owns enough of this island to buffer any scandal. It grants certain… liberties. You’re the new writer. The heartbroken American.”
“Is that my official title now?”
“It’s more interesting than ‘journalist.’ I read Judy’s profile of the hydroponic farm you did. It was good. You notice things.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “You should notice me. I’m far more entertaining than a tomato that grows without soil.”
Matthew laughed, disarmed. The man was outrageous, a blunt instrument cutting through the night’s ambiguity. “Noted. You’re more entertaining than an agricultural innovation.”
Henry moved closer, his cologne a mix of sandalwood and something dangerously crisp. “I have a junk boat. We could take it out this weekend. Get genuinely lost. No mirrors, no secrets. Just sun, sea, and spectacularly bad decisions.”
Before Matthew could answer, Henry closed the remaining distance. He placed a hand lightly on Matthew’s shoulder, his touch confident, and leaned in. His lips brushed Matthew’s cheek, a deliberate, warm pressure that lingered a second too long to be casual. The scent of tobacco and ambition filled Matthew’s senses.
“Think about it,” Henry murmured, his voice a vibration against Matthew’s skin. He slipped a thick, embossed card into Matthew’s shirt pocket, patting it twice. Then he was gone, disappearing through the curtain with a swagger that seemed to bend the light around him.
Matthew stood frozen, his cheek tingling. He pulled the card out. It was cream-colored, heavy stock. Just a name, HENRY LEE, and a mobile number. No title, no company. The absolute confidence of it was breathtaking.
“Unbelievable.”
Mo’s voice came from the doorway. He walked over, his expression a mix of exasperation and reluctant awe. He stared at the card in Matthew’s hand. “First Pang, now Lee? You have a talent. A genuine, supernatural gift for attracting the attention of the most spectacularly toxic men in this entire city-state.”
“Toxic? He was just…” Matthew faltered, the kiss on his cheek still a live wire on his skin.
“Henry Lee is a phenomenon. His father is Lee Peng Soon. Real estate, shipping, half of Orchard Road. Henry is the heir who treats his fortune like a private joke and other people’s hearts like confetti.” Mo shoved his hands in his pockets, looking out at the city Henry’s family helped shape. “He gets bored. He collects people. Interesting people, smart people, beautiful people. He sweeps them up into his world of junk boats and private clubs and champagne breakfasts until he isn’t bored anymore. Then he drops them. They’re usually left bewildered, slightly poorer in spirit, and forever comparing their normal lives to the glimpse of insane luxury he gave them.”
“You make him sound like a villain.”
“He’s not. That’s the problem. He’s charming and witty and can be incredibly kind. It’s all real, until it isn’t. The wealth isn’t an affectation; it’s the atmosphere he breathes. You can’t compete with that. You just get to visit until your visa runs out.” Mo turned to him, his face serious in the city’s glow. “You have a type. Handsome, complicated, and emotionally unavailable. It’s like you’re trying to reconstruct Patrick with higher production values.”
The accusation was so blunt, so horrifically accurate, it stole the air from Matthew’s lungs. He looked down at the two cards in his hand—Brian’s careful script, Henry’s stark embossing. Two numbers, two doors to two different gilded cages.
Mo saw him looking. He sighed, a long, weary sound. “Come on. Liana’s waiting downstairs. She wants chicken rice at the all-night stall. It’s a far less complicated love affair.”
He led the way back inside. Matthew followed, the cards a stiff, accusing weight in his pocket. The music swallowed them again, but the quiet on the rooftop had settled deep in his bones. He had come for a fresh start, a clean slate. Instead, he was now carrying a pocketful of plotlines, each one a potential heartbreak wearing a devastating smile.
He found Liana by the bar, yelling an order for water. She took one look at his face and hooked her arm through his. “Nope. We’re changing the channel. This place has served its purpose. It’s time for grease and starch.”
Mo materialized beside them, his earlier intensity banked into a watchful silence. He simply nodded, falling into step as Liana led their retreat down the hidden staircase, through the alley, and out into the humid, honest bustle of Chinatown proper. The club’s bass faded, replaced by the clatter of wooden mahjong tiles from a shuttered shopfront and the sizzle from a nearby street vendor.
They walked a few blocks, the tension between them slowly diluting in the night air, until they found a brightly lit stall with a line of taxi drivers and night-shift workers. Plastic stools, folding tables, the pervasive, glorious smell of frying garlic and peanut oil. Liana ordered for the table: chicken rice, char siew pork, a plate of chili-packed kang kong greens.
“So,” Liana said, after the first reviving bites. “Your inaugural Singaporean night out. You bagged a celebrity and a billionaire. Not bad for two hours’ work.” She dipped a piece of chicken in dark soy sauce.
Mo’s chopsticks clicked against his plate. “He didn’t bag them. They circled him like sharks who’ve spotted a new, interestingly melancholic fish. Brian Pang and Henry Lee.” He said the names like a diagnosis.
Liana’s eyebrows shot up. “Henry was there? And he spoke to you? He usually just sends champagne from across the room as a mating call.” She considered this, chewing. “Okay, Mo’s right. That’s a potent one-two punch of complication.”
“They’re just people,” Matthew protested, though the cards in his pocket felt like radium.
“They are forces of nature with excellent dental work,” Liana corrected. “Look, Matthew, they could be fun. Spectacularly fun. Like a ride on a rogue fireworks display. You just have to know you’re definitely going to get burned, and you can’t complain about the ashes afterwards. Keep your expectations in the gutter where they belong, and you might have a story to tell.”
Mo set his chopsticks down with deliberate control. “That’s terrible advice.”
“It’s realistic!”
“It’s cynical. And it’s wrong.” Mo turned his dark gaze on Matthew. “You don’t need a ‘fun distraction.’ You need a connection that doesn’t feel like a high-wire act over a pit of secrecy or privilege. Something that doesn’t require a security briefing or an NDA.”
“Something like what?” Matthew asked, the question hanging in the greasy air.
Mo held his look, a muscle in his jaw working. “Something that doesn’t leave you staring at your phone wondering which version of them you’re getting today. Something solid.”
The protectiveness in his voice was a physical warmth, a shield offered. It directly echoed the spark from that first handshake, the accidental brush of shoulders on the street. This wasn’t just collegial concern. It was personal, and it made Matthew’s stomach flip in a way Brian’ intense focus or Henry’s audacious kiss had not.
Matthew deflected, the weight of it too much to examine over a plastic table. He forced a laugh, light and brittle. “You sound like my therapist. A very handsome, surprisingly intense therapist specializing in bad romantic choices. I appreciate the concern, really. But I think I can handle a text message without requiring a rescue squad.”
Mo looked away, a slight flush visible on his neck under the stall’s fluorescent light. He picked his chopsticks back up. “Fine. Your funeral. Pass the chili.”
The rest of the meal passed with easier talk of work, of Judy’s latest impossible deadline, of Liana’s upcoming trip to Jakarta. The normalcy was a balm. But the undercurrent remained, a silent wire strung between Matthew and Mo, vibrating with things unsaid.
Back in his quiet apartment an hour later, the scent of smoke and chili still on his clothes, Matthew emptied his pockets onto the cold marble kitchen counter. His keys, some loose change, his phone. The two business cards.
They lay side-by-side under the stark overhead light. Brian’s, elegant and understated, the handwritten digits a delicate promise of clandestine intimacy. Henry’s, bombastic and blank, an open invitation to a gilded chaos.
Mo’s words replayed, solid. Liana’s, fun. His own history with Patrick, a fresh bruise. The sterile silence of the apartment pressed in, a reminder of the isolation he’d chosen, the loneliness he’d traded for safety.
He picked up his phone. The screen illuminated his face in the dark room.
He was tired of being careful. Tired of architecting his life around the avoidance of pain. Singapore was supposed to be an adventure, and so far his biggest risk had been choosing between oyster sauce and dark soy.
His thumbs hovered over the screen. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the kind that precedes a jump from a high dive.
To the number on Brian’s card he typed: The film about secrets. I’d like to see it. – Matthew.
To the number on Henry’s card he wrote: A junk boat and bad decisions. When do we set sail? – Matthew.
He hit send on both before he could think. The whoosh sound was final.
The phone slid from his hand onto the counter next to the now-inert cards. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, alive drumbeat in the hollow room. There was no taking it back. The lines were cast.
He stood there in the dark, waiting. The city’s lights blinked back, indifferent and full of possibility. For better or worse, his fresh start was now hurtling forward, a narrative he had just willingly, recklessly, chosen to complicate.