In 1940, Shanghai had become an isolated island. Neon is poison wrapped in honey, and silent blood flows in radio waves. He is a bank clerk, dealing with numbers, passwords and expressionless customers every day, like a precise but silent gear. No one knows that those boring report figures are the key to his intelligence transmission. Deep in the cold bank vault, there is a radio station that can hear gunfire and crying in the distance. There is no smoke in his battlefield, only the ink stains spreading between the account books, the crossed eyes at the dance, and the shadowy surveillance in the middle of the night. When faith becomes the only reality, daily life becomes a layer of paint that needs to be pierced. In this maze of desire and despair, he will ignite a glimmer of light in the quietest way.
