I slung a small cloth bundle over my shoulder and slipped away through the chaos toward the train station.
The five hundred dollars was sewn into my underwear, digging into my skin. Uncomfortable as hell. But it made me feel untouchable.
The green train rattled and clanked. The car reeked of sweat, feet, and cheap tobacco. I squeezed into the aisle by the restroom door, watching the fields blur past the window.
Two words pounded in my chest: Seaview City.
These days, the bold choke on their own ambition; the timid starve. I knew exactly what seismic shifts would rock this land over the next thirty years.
Half a month later, I stood on Border Market Street in Sha Tau Kok District.
This place was a special zone within a special zone—an adventurer's paradise. I didn't rush to start flipping goods. First, I watched. Three full days.
Digital watches.
Those flashy little things that lit up when you pressed them—over in the Harbor District, they were street-stall junk. A few bucks each. But inland? You could flip them for twenty, thirty, even forty or fifty.
Massive margins.
I went all-in with my five hundred—digital watches and a batch of Harbor-brand shirts.