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墨書 Inktalez
The neon lights outside the glass curtain wall blurred into a patch of blood-red glow in the rain. I loosened my tie and stared at the stack of documents on my desk, the nib of my fountain pen soaking ink into the "Equity Transfer Agreement."
A sudden thunderclap outside the floor-to-ceiling window made the crystal chandelier sway, causing my secretary, Sophie, to tremble as she held a cup of coffee, splattering the brown liquid onto the Qinghua Porcelain ink wash I had received just yesterday.
"Mr. Lin, President Zhang of Chen Group has rescheduled to take the earliest flight tomorrow," Sophie said, placing the coffee beside me. The scent of jasmine perfume mingled with an unfamiliar cedar aroma.
I traced the warm bone china cup with my fingers and caught sight of a half lipstick mark on the inner collar of her blouse—dark red, like dried blood.
As the elevator descended, the metal walls reflected my distorted image, and suddenly, all the motion-sensor lights in the underground parking garage went out.
In the darkness, I heard rustling sounds. I reached for the Swiss Army knife in my suit pocket but collided with a warm body.
The moment my phone's flash illuminated the area, it captured only the tip of Crocodile Leather Shoes disappearing around a corner—exactly like the pair I had gifted Lin Hai at his birthday banquet.
Uncle Wang’s pipe flickered among the dusty file cabinets in the archives. His age-spotted hand suddenly gripped my wrist. "Your mother held onto that Blue Ledger before she passed, saying to wait until the Wutong Tree blooms..."
Before he could finish, a sharp crack echoed from outside as a branch snapped.
When we rushed out, all we found was a half-broken branch of the sycamore tree still glistening with dew lying in the mud.
The fluorescent numbers on the safe's keypad glowed an eerie blue as I repeatedly entered my mother's death anniversary but kept receiving error messages.
When my fingertips brushed against freshly scraped metal shavings at the edge of the keyhole, a chill suddenly crept up my neck—the slats of the vent were slightly trembling as if someone had just squeezed through.
In that moment when static flickered across the surveillance room screen, I recognized a figure wearing a fisherman’s hat in the footage.
Three years ago at a board meeting, Lin Hai’s secretary’s pinky finger had curled in exactly that unnatural way.
The hard drive array emitted a piercing hum as all videos related to the underground parking lot turned into garbled code.
When Sophie’s phone vibrated at two in the morning, I was scanning my mother’s jewelry box with an Ultraviolet Lamp.
As she turned over, her silk nightgown slipped off her shoulder, revealing fresh scratch marks beneath her collarbone.
Feigning sleep, I listened to snippets of encrypted conversation mixed with water running from the bathroom: "...the ledger is in the south of the city...need to contact samples..."
The residue at the bottom of my coffee cup revealed a faint blue hue in the reagent kit. I looked at the test report and sneered.
It turned out that these two months of migraines were not due to overwork; someone had added trace amounts of thallium to my Blue Mountain coffee.
On the windowsill sat a pot of Gentian, my mother’s favorite flower, its leaves yellowing and curling without me noticing.
When the antique shop owner handed me a sandalwood box, Jade Pendant suddenly emitted a buzzing tremor.
An old photograph fluttered to the ground, depicting Lin Hai from twenty years ago, standing under the Wutong Tree with a woman in a qipao. The woman's features bore a striking resemblance to Sophie.
On the back of the photo, faded ink read: "To Wan Ru, March 5, 1999."
The torrential rain pounded against the floor-to-ceiling windows like countless bullet holes. I slammed the USB drive onto the financial report that Sophie was organizing.
Her fingers, painted with cherry-red nail polish, paused for a moment before she suddenly chuckled, "Did you just realize it now, Brother?"
Lightning illuminated the vermilion birthmark behind her ear, identical to the one on the portrait of our Birth Mother displayed in Lin Hai's study.
The old-fashioned BP machine at the bottom of the safe vibrated unexpectedly, and a scheduled text message set by my mother before her passing popped up at midnight: "143 Wutong Alley."
When I burst into the old house marked with a Dangerous Building sign, the scent of decaying sandalwood mingled with fresh blood—tattered pages of account books were soaking in a formalin jar, each line of numbers obscured by tiny letters only visible under a microscope.
Jade Pendant felt hot in my suit pocket as I stared at the suddenly blacked-out projector in the conference room.
Lin Hai caressed his newly replaced rosewood cane, its handle carved with a Yazis Beast that bared its fangs at me.
Outside, dark clouds loomed lower, and a flash of lightning split the sky as if it intended to tear the entire city in half.
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