In 1927, the city of Shanghai was covered in fog, rust and powder. The stone road in Huajing trembled with the vibration of horse hooves, and unexploded shell casings were embedded in the cracks of the walls; the neon lights of the concession melted in the rain and mist, and Western leather boots ran over Qingbang cigarette butts. The porter in shorts dodged between the boundary markers, but the glass door of Zhiyuan's office revealed a solitary lamp, like a waking eye. ?
Jiang Zhiyuan's eyes were sharper than the searchlights. He could tell the old and new by twisting his hair with his white gloves, and he could distinguish the seal by turning the wax paint on his fingertips. Su Jingshu always had a sketchbook spread out in her arms, and her pencil scratched the paper. The dust on the door shaft and the twist of the silk thread were all symbols, breaking the situation earlier than the police siren. ?
The truth is hotter than a gun. Officials' cigars smell of bitter almonds, courtesans hide secret messages in their attire, and rickshaws have warlord maps locked in hidden compartments. The seams between the stone slabs are filled with stories: rust mixed with perfume, gear jams and knife marks, and fear hidden in the eyes of passers-by. ?
The letters with the word "blazing" written in fire paint from Zhejiang and Anhui are exactly the same as the sealing wax melting marks in the theft case in the concession. They know that every case is a rift in the times, dripping with the blood of power and hiding the struggles of all living beings. The thread he was looking for had one end tied to the barrel of the gun, the other end wrapped around the gallows, and in the middle was the gasp of Shanghai City caught in the gap.
