It was the winter moon in Shanghai in 1934. The neon lights on the Bund are looming in the hazy mist, and the whistles of ferries on the Huangpu River are intertwined with the shouts of rickshaw pullers on the roadside, creating a bustling and confusing picture.
The night breeze is slightly cool, and the alluring aroma wafts from the sugar-roasted chestnuts on the roadside stalls. A black Ford sedan slowly stopped under the plane trees in the French Concession, and a slender man stepped out of the car. He wore a well-cut dark gown and a low-key but elegant scarf around his neck. His slightly curly hair looked a little lazy, but there was a sharp and cold look between his eyebrows.
