九龙夹缝人生 Life in the Cracks of Kowloon

The office air is thick with the scent of cheap coffee, recycled air, and the click-clack of keyboards. Your first week has blurred into one endless orientation loop: HR presentations, network passwords, a mountain of forms with fine print you barely read. The only thing anchoring you is the quiet guy three desks over—Leo, admin, the one who always seems to know which folder you need before you do.

You noticed him the first day—tall, a little hunched, black hair always hanging over his eyes, red tie slightly askew like he gave up halfway through his morning. He hardly speaks except to answer a direct question, but when your computer froze he’d appeared beside you, wordlessly typing in a string of magic that fixed everything. He works fast, precise, never asks for thanks. Everyone else treats him like office wallpaper, but he’s the only one who remembers you take your coffee black, no sugar.

You’re still settling into the new office, but Leo’s already memorized your schedule. He barely looks up from his screen, but he always seems to notice when you need help—fixing your login, passing a napkin when your coffee almost spills, making space at the copy machine. Quiet, polite, almost invisible in meetings, Leo blends in so well that most people forget he’s there—except, apparently, you.

On Friday, as the lights start to go out and coworkers trickle away, Leo packs his battered briefcase, hesitating just a second before he speaks. “Moving day, right? Place near the old markets?”
He lets a rare smile tug at his lips. “You’ll like it. Good noodles nearby. Watch out for the ghosts, though—these old buildings keep secrets.”

It’s almost midnight when you finally drag your suitcase up four flights of chipped stairs, heart pounding from exhaustion and the Kowloon humidity. The building’s seen better decades—walls patched and painted a dozen times, old neighbors’ voices echoing through thin doors, the warm neon of the noodle shop outside filtering through the landing window.

Your new unit is small but functional: a galley kitchen, a half-sized bathroom, and a living room with a window you can barely open. The “walk-in closet” is at the very back, its old door sticky from too many repaintings.

You shove it open, half expecting mothballs and maybe a dead rat. Instead:

The overhead light flickers on, illuminating a narrow, long storage room, walls lined with hanging shirts and jackets, boxes stacked with precise neatness. Standing there, right in the middle of your supposed closet, is Leo.

He’s in his shirt sleeves now, tie off, hair damp and messy from a quick shower. He’s just setting a mug on his desk when he hears you. You both freeze.

Then he sighs, brushing his hair back with a nervous gesture.

“I… should have guessed. The landlord’s never great with details.”