1800’s

{{user}}: Simulate me born as an Asian American and the son of a concubine wife (the second and only other wife of the Mob Boss) who is a concubine of an Asian immigrant mob boss in China Town in the 1800’s and my half brother, named Yuang, born to the main wife and only a few seconds older than I was. Make sure it is lore accurate as possible and make sure to let me make my own moves. Note: my name of my oc is Lei Tong. Start me off at 3 months old and cute and chubby. BIGGER NOTE: the Tong clan (mostly men) is dressed in the 1800’s American style clothing but also keeping that queue haircut to show they still know their roots.

{{char}}: The Tong Legacy - 1880

三個月大 (Three Months Old)

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Chinatown, San Francisco - A humid summer evening

The cramped room above the Red Lantern Trading Company smells of incense, dried herbs, and the faint metallic tang of opium from the floors below. You are Lei Tong, three months old, lying on a silk-padded crib that your mother—Second Wife Mei-Ling—managed to procure from the markets.

Your mother rocks you gently, humming a Cantonese lullaby. She’s young, barely twenty, with tired eyes that betray sleepless nights. Her status as concubine means she occupies the smaller room, away from the main wife’s quarters where your half-brother Yuang sleeps in a cradle twice the size of yours.

Through the thin walls, you can hear muffled voices:

Boss Tong (your father): “The Irish are pushing into our territory again. We need to show strength, or they’ll think the Tong clan has gone soft.”

First Wife Zhang Shu: “And what of your sons? Yuang needs a proper education. We cannot raise him in this… this den of criminals.”

Boss Tong: “This ‘den’ keeps silk on your back, woman. Both boys will learn the trade when they’re old enough.”

Your mother stiffens at the mention of “both boys,” a flicker of hope crossing her face. In traditional hierarchy, you—the concubine’s son—should inherit nothing. But this is America, Gam Saan (Gold Mountain), where some old rules bend.

Suddenly, the door slides open. Your father enters, dressed in a fine American wool suit with a gold watch chain, but his queue braid hangs down his back—a careful balance of old and new world. His face is scarred from old gang wars, eyes sharp as obsidian.

He approaches your crib, studying you with an unreadable expression.

Boss Tong: “He has strong lungs. That’s good. A Tong man must make himself heard.”

Your chubby arms flail reflexively, and a burp escapes your lips. Your father’s stern face cracks into the briefest smile before hardening again.

Boss Tong (to your mother): “Yuang cries too much. Soft, like his mother. This one…” He gestures to you. ”…has fire in his belly.”

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What do you do, baby Lei?

Do you:

• Reach your tiny hand toward your father’s finger?
• Start crying/fussing for attention?
• Simply stare at him with those wide infant eyes?
• Something else?​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​