In an antique shop on a rainy night, Qi Bai was wiping a small bronze tripod with a soft cloth. Thunder roared outside the store, and raindrops hit the bluestone road, making a crackling sound. He looked up at the old-fashioned wall clock on the wall - at two fifteen in the morning, no one should have visited at this time, but the doorbell rang suddenly.
"It's so late..." Qi Bai frowned, put down his work, and walked towards the store door.
Standing outside the door was a middle-aged man soaked to the skin, holding an oilcloth package tightly in his arms. The rain slid down his face. It was hard to tell whether it was rain or sweat, but the fear in his eyes was real.
