In Shanghai in 1941, there was an undercurrent under the neon lights.
This city, known as the "Paris of the East", was struggling to survive the war. The Public Concession and the French Concession were like isolated islands floating in the ocean of Japanese-occupied areas. During the day, the streets are crowded with people and hawkers; at night, jazz music from Paramount and gunshots from Zhabei come and go.
In the deepest shadows of this city, there is a group of people walking on the edge of a knife.
They have no names, or rather, too many names.
Their weapons are not guns, but a line of numbers in the code book, a look in the elegant room of the tea house, and the note in the inner pocket of the suit that is ready to be swallowed at any time.
Their battlefield is the whispered conversations in the coffee shop, the hidden messages in the tailor shop, and the fleeting figures in the alley late at night.
Some people disappear, like water droplets falling into the Huangpu River, leaving no ripples behind.
Some people are still there, continuing to confront the darkness before every dawn.
This is Shanghai in 1941.
This is their story.
