Luzon Mask

5. Juan

5. Juan (******)

Juan had a sharply defined, slightly tanned face, with thick black curls that made him look a few years younger than his actual age. Since becoming the city’s highest official, a few strands of gray had quietly appeared at his temples, adding a touch of steady, profound charm to his demeanor.

Regarding the organization of the Mask Festival, Juan was supportive. However, the event involved coordination across multiple departments, especially concerning the sourcing and allocation of funds—a complex matter that could set off a chain reaction with a single misstep. Just thinking about it was a tangle of countless threads.

Juan came from a local farming family, his ancestors having built their wealth on sugarcane plantations, making his family a true local powerhouse. Unfortunately, as the wheels of fortune turned, the rise of the American syrup industry led to the decline of the sugarcane trade in the Philippines. The Juan family’s fortunes waned with it, and by his generation, he had to forge a new path.

Compared to traditional local landowners like himself, the newly arrived groups—such as the Tengu Society, which controlled “Joy Club” and “Prosperity Park”—were flourishing. Their archways grew grander, their estates ever larger.

These newcomers operated like eels slipping through muddy waters—elusive, slippery, and traceless. They used AI face-swapping for business video conferences, wore masks at essential banquets, and sent proxies to most public events, shrouding themselves in an air of mystery that was impossible to penetrate.

The entertainment venues under the Tengu Society ran like a well-oiled machine, precisely catering to a variety of human desires—beyond basic needs like food and clothing, almost anything could be found here. Karaoke lounges, bars, massage parlors, bathhouses, and gambling dens—none of these ventures ever sat idle. As soon as the doors opened, crowds surged in; as long as the lights were on, people lingered. Human nature, far from noble, had many gaping wounds called desires that needed to be seen, filled, or even healed.

In this city, desire wasn’t a hidden illness but an accepted part of daily life. By day, people wore masks as they toiled; by night, they shed their disguises, eagerly indulging under neon lights—all in an attempt to cover the emptiness in their hearts.

“Pursuing happiness” sounded like a harmless slogan, but once it became a business, it carried a refined cruelty. The Tengu Society didn’t invent weakness; they merely turned it into a system, designing every struggle into a pathway for consumption. They didn’t ask about origins or destinations; their only question was, “Do you want more?” And so, they attracted endless streams of customers, creating a nightly spectacle of blazing lights and clinking glasses.

Still, Juan had to admit these newcomers were generous in one regard: money. They were never stingy with him or the city’s residents, whether it was through official taxes or private arrangements—everything was handled meticulously, without a drop wasted.

When it came to the recent case of the missing ship, however, Juan was puzzled. Informants reported that the incident was tied to the Tengu Society, specifically the two low-profile entertainment venues that quietly amassed wealth. He sensed that the cunning president of the Tengu Society, Ling Jiagong, had taken a risky—or perhaps foolish—move for some extraordinary reason. This old fox, who used his daughters as a shield for his shady dealings, had made a blunder so grave it could spell his downfall.

Moreover, Ling likely knew he’d knocked over the first domino and was already plotting the next steps.

The government’s investigation into the shipwreck was ongoing. Since the crew came from various countries, the matter involved complex international diplomacy and wasn’t easy to resolve. Until the truth surfaced, it was best to keep things quiet.

The most urgent task now was to stabilize the public’s mood. Even if someone stirred up rumors claiming the shipwreck was caused by “extraterrestrial visitors,” Juan would tacitly allow or even subtly encourage it, turning a blind eye to let the speculation fester.

The night was dark as ink, and both “Joy Club” and the neighboring “Prosperity Park” glowed with dazzling lights, like a lavish fire ritual in a dream. From the gambling area came occasional bursts of cheers when someone hit the jackpot. Winning at the tables was no easy feat, so when it happened, it was cause for collective celebration.

The nightclubs were a cacophony of noise and excitement. The bars simmered with an ambiguous atmosphere, while restaurants buzzed with lighthearted conversation.

But the coffee shop was Juan’s frequent haunt. It was the city’s unofficial hub for exchanging gossip and insider information—news you couldn’t find in newspapers. This was the main reason Juan kept coming back.

After leaving another banquet, Juan didn’t head home. Instead, he drove straight to Joy Club. Tonight, he was dressed sharply in a suit, his collar slightly open, his naturally curly black hair neat and fresh, exuding calm confidence.

As he drove, he mulled over his plan: since the Mask Festival needed support from all sides, he’d take advantage of the momentum and visit Joy Club in person. After all, shouting demands from afar wouldn’t get real money out of their pockets.

Joy Club operated from noon until 2 a.m., bustling like a street fair the moment it opened. Hotels, bars, dance halls, and gambling dens offered a seamless stream of services, with crowds and traffic flowing endlessly. Prosperity Park nearby was much the same.

The difference was that Joy Club’s backyard housed the Ling family’s private villa, while Prosperity Park’s backyard concealed another mysterious enclave. Deep within was a heavily guarded inner courtyard, surrounded by high walls and far from the main road, where slogans and music played day and night. If it weren’t bordered by sugarcane fields and cliffs, complaints would have erupted long ago.

Juan had sent people to investigate Prosperity Park, but Huang Zhi, its boss, always rebuffed them for lack of solid evidence.

Parking his car, Juan noticed a black SUV slide into the spot beside him. Big Mike, with his white hair and blue eyes, stepped out, clearly a regular.

Juan walked over, half-joking, “Did you put a tracker on my car? This is too much of a coincidence.”

Big Mike gave a dry laugh. “There’s an old Eastern saying: great minds think alike. I’m not here to indulge—I’m here to ‘investigate,’ just like you.”

Juan knew this guy was cozy with the American envoy to the Philippines, always exchanging glances with them. A self-proclaimed devout follower of the Blue Sky Church, he was a regular at Joy Club, chummy with managers big and small. His charm lay in his habit of tipping generously, no matter the occasion, making him a favorite among the staff.

Juan patted Mike’s shoulder, half-warning, “I know your game. You’re hoping to dig up some big scoop to sell to your friends for a nice price.”

Big Mike put on a sanctimonious face, muttering about “these cunning hicks” and “no room for dark secrets wherever we go.” He even lectured Juan, “Don’t think they’re just quietly raking in cash—it’s impossible. There’s a black hole here, and I’ll dig it up sooner or later.”

They stepped through Joy Club’s main entrance, greeted by two rows of women in qipaos bowing and calling, “Welcome!” Their faces were adorned with vibrant flowers or colorful feathers, their half-hidden features evoking the allure of a pipa player veiling her face—a signature of the local club.

The air was thick with the scent of flowers, liquor, and cigars, intoxicating yet not overwhelming.

Past the entrance was an inner garden with a rockery pond, leading to the coffee shop, where men in suits whispered to women in sheer dresses, exchanging smiles and subtle glances.

The bar area was the loudest, with booming music and the stench of alcohol. Drunk young patrons wailed into microphones, while others laughed it off, chasing and joking in the lively chaos. In a corner sat a few seemingly idle men, their gazes sharp as knives, occasionally scanning newcomers, sending a chill down the spine.

Juan’s heart sank. The real game is just beginning.

Big Mike held a caramel macchiato with an Eastern flair, wrinkling his nose. “Can’t stand this Eastern taste…”

Without turning, Juan sipped his wine, shooting him a glance. “Then why are you here? Song City is an open city—diversity is its essence.”

To avoid Mike, Juan moved to the other end of the bar, casually sipping whiskey while his mind zeroed in on his target.

As a seasoned official, having some intelligence was no surprise. He knew the Ling family wasn’t surnamed Ling but Lin. Ling Jiagong’s three “daughters” were triplets, yet they still used stand-ins. The inner courtyard housed a medical center where plastic surgery and face-swapping could be done without leaving the club. These girls shared one identity: Lin Qingyuan. They divided management duties for the club, unbeknownst to outsiders.

The real “Lin Qingyuan,” a native of Song City registered in the Philippines, had vanished like a raindrop into the sea.

One of the “Lin Qingyuans,” a woman with a black rose earring, sat nearby on a high stool. Dressed in a light blue qipao and a hollowed-out mask, she reviewed reports with lowered eyes, her expression cool and detached.

Another, with a red rose brooch, favored Tang-style dresses embroidered with her favorite poetry, her mask a work of calligraphic art. Passing Juan, she nodded politely, “Mr. Juan, hello.” Courteous but distant, as if an invisible barrier stood between them.

The girl with a white jasmine hair clip wore a white shirt and jeans today, her silver half-mask glinting. Seeing Juan, her lips curved into a surprised smile as she hurried over. “Oh, hello! Mr. Juan, are you here on business or pleasure?”

Juan’s heart inexplicably raced.

Though unmarried, he wasn’t without romantic connections, yet something always felt missing. To him, marriage was something that would come naturally, no rush. But now, he wondered if what he lacked wasn’t a person but a feeling—one that could instantly transport him back to being 18.

His grandmother, surnamed Chen, was an immigrant from the East. The Juan family’s rise owed much to her silk trade connections, so he always felt an innate closeness to Easterners.

This girl before him stirred a youthful flutter in his heart, as if he were 18 again.

Juan caught a glimpse of Big Mike disappearing down a corridor, arm around an Asian woman. His heart jolted—this guy, who always disparaged Asians, was now so intimate. Was he working hard or already wearing a mask?

Juan sighed softly, “There’s an Eastern saying: some masks, worn too long, become the face.”

Jasmine followed his gaze and nodded. “There’s another: some thoughts are hidden so deep that truth and falsehood are separated by a mere thread. Mask or no mask, it’s all an outcome.”

They shared a smile.

Juan mulled over her words. “Yeah, walk by the river long enough, and your shoes will get wet.”

At 18, Juan’s most frequent dreams were of an Eastern woman—beautiful, youthful, with a presence strikingly similar to this jasmine-scented girl before him.

“Jasmine,” Juan said, “I’ve been meaning to say—I need a secretary. The position’s yours if you want it.”

“Are you serious?” She tilted her head, thinking, her smile widening. “You’re not joking?”

“I never joke about important matters.”

“For a moment, I almost said yes,” Jasmine said softly. “If I walked out of your office, my dad might stop saying I’m just a little girl.”

“So, you’ll take it?” Juan asked directly.

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m tied to Joy Club. There’s so much to do. If I leave, Rose will throw a fit, and Frangipani won’t sleep. My dad? Who knows what he’d think. But I’ll ask him.”

Juan raised his glass. “To you staying true to yourself—cheers.”

Jasmine’s eyes sparkled, and for the first time, she felt a fleeting urge to soar out and see the world.