Zhang Jingxuan sat in front of his office by the window on the second floor, the pen in his hand slowly scratching across the case notebook. The whistle of the barge on the Huangpu River could be heard outside the window, mixed with the faint scent of osmanthus in the night wind. He raised his eyes and glanced at the face reflected in the window glass - twenty-six years old, with sharp edges and corners, and a somewhat careless laziness between his brows.
For three years, this face has become familiar in the patrol room of the French Concession. Everyone knows that there is a quiet Agent Zhang in the Archives Department, who does things well and never causes trouble.
