My name is Su Wanyin. Ever since I was born, my left eye has been a little brighter than my right. Not because I have better eyesight, but because I can see things buried in the shadows. A stillborn baby gnawing on dirt beneath the wall, a bride bleached white from soaking beside a well, a headless soldier trailing travelers for miles: these “neighbors” have kept me company for twenty years. Grandma said I was born with the gift of second sight. She never taught me a word about compassion. Instead, she put a peachwood sword soaked in cinnabar in my hands and made me memorize one rule: “If an evil thing blocks your way, either it shatters or you die. Show them mercy, and you’re digging your own grave.”
From a village shrine rotted through with corpse oil, to a Republican-era mansion in the city hiding human sacrifices, to a fishing village by a ferry crossing haunted by water ghosts, every road I’ve traveled has been steeped in dark energy, and every case has been bloody. The wicked spirits hiding beneath a veneer of folk custom, the murderous ghosts wearing human skin, have never meant to let me go. And I’ve never shown them any kindness. Grandma taught me long ago that when dealing with the supernatural, ruthlessness is essential for survival. As for karma and retribution, I’ll think about those after I make it through tonight.
