Beside the drainage channel of the underground city Yuanxu, seventeen-year-old Su Wan squatted on the damp moss ground, twisting an almost invisible silver thread that was about to break between her fingertips. It was the longevity thread of the old smoker Chen San. As soon as she stood up, several modified motorcycles roared to a halt in front of her.
The young master of Zhulong, Jiang Jin, took off his helmet.
Beside the drainage channel of the underground city Yuanxu, seventeen-year-old Su Wan squatted on the damp moss ground. An almost invisible silver thread was twirled between his fingertips. That's because Chen San, a long-time smoker, has a life expectancy that is so thin that it is about to break.
The thread was dim and trembled slightly under her fingertips, like the last spark of a candle in the wind. She let go of her hand, and the thread drifted back to the rickety figure curled up in the tattered blanket, wrapping around his skinny wrist, and became a little lighter. Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow at the latest. Su Wan patted the dust on her hands and stood up, her trousers legs stained with mud.
The alley was filled with the musty smell and the sour smell of fermented sewage. The halo of neon signs in the distance barely penetrated into this corner, dyeing everything a vague dark red. She picked up the washed canvas bag and prepared to leave. Just then, the roar of a motorcycle engine came from the other side of the alley.
