Rain, another damn rainy night.
Heavy raindrops hit the iron awning, making a dull and continuous "plop" sound, like a funeral song that lulls people to sleep. Lin Xun leaned on the squeaky leather chair, raised his head, and poured the last bit of cheap whiskey in the glass down his throat. The spicy liquid burned his esophagus, but it couldn't dispel the smell of dampness, mustiness, and despair in the air.
This office located on the top floor of an old commercial and residential building is his world. Or rather, all that was left of him.
Outside the window, the city's neon lights were turned into a blurry halo by the rain, gorgeous but cold, like a poor-quality oil painting soaked in water. Lin Xun's eyes swept across the desktop - a laptop that was turned on and he didn't know how long it would last. On the screen was a red pop-up window calling for payment of property fees; a few old and dog-eared books on criminal psychology; an empty wine bottle; and a photo of him and another man.
