Adrift in Shanghai's Sea of Crime

Shanghai, 1934, in the heart of winter. The Bund’s neon lights flickered in and out of view through the hazy mist. The horns of ferries on the Huangpu River mingled with the cries of rickshaw pullers along the roadside, painting a picture both dazzling and dreamlike. The night breeze was chilly, and the tempting aroma of sugar-roasted chestnuts drifted from a roadside stall. A black Ford slowly pulled to a stop beneath the plane trees in the French Concession. A tall, slender man stepped out. He wore a well-tailored dark changshan and an understated yet elegant scarf. His slightly wavy hair gave him a languid air, but his sharp eyes and brows held a piercing coldness.