The Nanjing Shopkeeper: I Leave No Japanese Soldiers Alive

Nanjing, winter. The wind is like a knife, slipping right down your collar. Qin Muyao kneads dough. His knuckles are thick, covered in cracks, dusted with flour that won't wash clean. Across the street, Fujiwara Xue touches up her lipstick. That little mirror, they say its frame is stretched with human skin. Damn, she's got expensive taste. The dough has to be kneaded smooth. Even if you're going to die, you have to do the job cleanly. This woman's got a sharp eye; Qin Muyao knows it well. Killing a collaborator is nothing. The important thing is to leave no trace. Like this dough: knead it in, steam it, and who'd ever know what was mixed into it? That fat pig Kameda specifically asked for buns. Fine by me. Qin Muyao mixes some wood shavings into the dough. And that deadly wall gets built right into the fifth layer of "leaving no trace." When it falls, it has to look like a natural disaster, not murder. He picks a bit of garlic skin from beneath his fingernail and flicks it into the wind. "Killing people is a small matter. Starving to death is a big one." He spits, saliva streaked with blood. "When there's no food in your belly, your bones get brittle. Makes it a pain in the ass to cut them up." The wind carries the garlic skin toward the red-lacquered gates of the Special Higher Police. Qin Muyao lowers his head and keeps kneading. This game has to be played so that when that woman licks her lips, she can't taste even a trace of blood between her teeth. #DissectingHumanNature #IntellectualDomination #ColdWarOfEspionage #EverydayAssassin #SilentConfrontation #NanjingUndercoverWar