In Shanghai in 1929, the lights were on and the neon lights were flashing. This city, where prosperity and decadence coexist, is the Paris of the East and a hotbed of undercurrents of evil. The river breeze from the Bund blew in with a salty smell, and the driver on the roadside sighed and hurried past on his tricycle. A middle-aged man in a suit stood at the door of the Chinachem Hotel, his expression stiff, and the sweat on his face looked particularly glaring on a winter night. He stretched out his hand to wipe it, but couldn't lift his arm, and finally fell to the ground with a "plop".
