Our top-tier office building has been plagued by repeated incidents. A feng shui master says it's haunted.
I wear technical gear, pull out an electronic compass, and study the building's structural plans.
"It's not haunted. It's a light-sha."
"The floor-to-ceiling glass curtain wall in your CEO's office focuses sunlight into a death ray at a certain angle."
"Easy fix. Just replace the glass."
But when I discover that someone has laid a deadly feng shui formation across the entire financial district,
I finally realize that the hypocritical architect
is using the fortune of the whole city to prolong his own life.
The rain is no longer water, but cold iron filings, clattering against the towering glass curtain wall of the office building. This colossal structure, named Huanyu Center, juts into the gray sky like a cold metal finger, radiating an arrogance that keeps everyone at a distance. The air is so damp it feels as if you could wring water from it, heavy with the city's distinctive blend of exhaust fumes and anxiety left to ferment.
I, Lin Jian, stand at the foot of this cold behemoth. The waterproof layer of my dark gray technical jacket makes a dull sound as the raindrops pound against it. My heavy backpack holds the tools of my trade. I look up. The tower's outline blurs beneath the leaden rain clouds, with only a few windows glowing a ghastly white, like the lifeless eyes of the dying. An intangible chill creeps up my spine. It's not the cold rain, but the building itself, which gives off a thick, unshakable aura of decay. Reports of bizarre accidents have been piling up for three months: elevators plummeting without warning, precision instruments failing all at once, employees suddenly suffering fatal heart attacks
