Fatal Passion

The first time Rong Shen saw An Tong was in the CBD district of Xiangjiang City.

It was late autumn, with a biting cold wind sweeping through the streets, and within minutes, a soft drizzle began to fall.

At the intersection, a black Mercedes MPV was idling in the left-turn lane. Inside, a man with a languid yet refined air sat in the backseat. Startled by the sound of rain, he glanced out the window and witnessed an unforgettable scene.

It was rush hour; pedestrians hurried past, their steps quick and impatient to return home. Amid the newly kindled city lights and the misty rain, a frail, slender figure stood near the line dividing cars from foot traffic, lost in thought.

She stood out, abrupt and conspicuous. People called to her, others whispered among themselves, but she seemed oblivious, unmoved by it all.

Not until a traffic warden approached and gently pulled her aside did the girl blink her hollow eyes and mumble something, head bowed.

It was a fleeting, dramatic scene that held Rong Shen’s gaze for a moment, but failed to capture any deeper concern. He supposed she was merely a troubled young woman, venting her emotions alone at the edge of the street.

At twenty-seven, Rong Shen’s temperament had been tempered by time. Steady and restrained, he had long since abandoned any inclination toward sentimental compassion.

...

At half past eight that night, An Tong returned, drenched, to the old house on Yunhai Road.

The building was rather dilapidated, its exterior walls shedding plaster with age and neglect.