The city is like a huge rust-colored boiler, boiling 36 million people around the clock. Looking down from the high-altitude bridge on the 200th floor, the streets are as thin as the printed lines on a circuit board, and the neon lights melt into blurry patches of pus and blood in the rain.
Lu Zheng stood on the edge of the covered bridge, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He held half a cigarette in his right hand, and the sparks on the end flickered in the humid air.
