Chapter 2: The Beginning 2

After that tense breakfast in our Mid-Levels flat, nothing shifted in any big way over the next few months. If anything, Van stepped up her game, turning sweeter and more attentive than she’d been in ages. Every morning before her hospital rounds, she packed me a proper lunch box with char siu bao, siu mai, and fresh cut fruits, tucked into a thermal box with a note saying ‘Fuel up, love.’ She blended those thick protein shakes with banana and peanut butter for my gym sessions, always ready in the fridge. Even when I staggered home from Wan Chai at some ungodly hour, reeking of Johnnie Walker Black, cigarette haze, and the sticky residue of some hostess’s pussy, she’d left a thermos of cooling lou mei herbal tea on the counter and those Pocari Sweat vitamin C drinks chilling on the nightstand. I appreciated it all, truly—my energy levels spiked, my mood stayed lifted like I’d mainlined Red Bull. Van was aces as a wife in every way except the bedroom, where she still locked down tighter than a Bank of China vault. These days I didn’t even bother trying.

One afternoon, I hit up my regular barber on Lockhart Road in Wan Chai, the one with the faded ‘Men’s Hair Salon’ sign flickering under the neon. My hair had been shooting up like bamboo in monsoon season lately, thick and glossy in a way it never used to. The old barber, Ah Ming with his tattooed forearms and gold Buddha chain, snipped away while squinting at me. ‘Wah, Max, you look different lah. More handsome these days.’ ‘How so?’ I asked, leaning back as the clippers buzzed. ‘Your skin’s glowing like you been eating bird’s nest every day. Face fuller, rounder cheeks—used to be all sharp angles like a Mong Kok street cat. Now you got that baby face vibe.’ I stared into the foggy mirror, razor in hand for a touch-up. He was spot on. My jawline had softened, cheeks plumped just a touch, eyes brighter under thicker lashes. Putting on weight? Nah, I was hitting the gym like clockwork. Plus Van had been feeding me nutritious food, not oily, greasy slop.

That evening at Pure Fitness in Central—Van footing the bill for the personal trainer, her rich family’s cash making it easy—I griped through another set of glute bridges and deep squats. ‘Coach, we’ve been drilling this for weeks already. My ass feels like it got kicked by a Causeway Bay taxi.’ She chuckled, spotting my barbell. ‘Core strength, bro. Building that power from the ground up. Check your glutes—perky and full now. And your chest? Pecs filling out nice, broader than before.’ Sweat dripping, I caught my reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors. My butt did look wider, those glutes rounded and lifted like I’d been squatting for a K-pop idol audition. My chest never had much bulk, but now it pushed against my tank top, nipples poking through the fabric more prominently than I remembered, sensitive even to the brush of cotton. And my dick—always average at best, nothing to brag about in the locker room—felt ... off when I adjusted in the showers. Shorter? Thinner? I shrugged it off under the steaming water. Must be the new routine, blood flow redirecting to those gains.