The Rouge Clasp: Bloodstained Cheongsams of Old Shanghai

In the twenty-fifth year of the Republic, winter came to Shanghai earlier than usual. At three in the morning, most of the neon lights at the Paramount Ballroom had gone dark. Only a faded red lantern above the entrance swayed in the icy wind.

“Inspector Chen, this way.” Old Zhang, the doorman, rubbed his reddened hands and led him inside.

“What time was the person reported missing?” Chen Mo's voice was low and slightly hoarse. His eyes swept the surroundings warily, like a hawk's.