The cold wave was coming.
Dense fog and dark clouds pressed down on Hong Kong Island. The streets were drenched by rain, countless flying ants collided with lampshades, and buildings seemed to be coated with an invisible layer of ice. Daring to touch it barehanded would make one's bones and flesh sting with pain.
The man's face was as delicate as porcelain, with deep-set eyes and a prominent nose. His pupils were a light, smoky grey, and his hair had turned completely white, without a hint of any other color.
He gazed out the car window, his usually lofty gaze lowered, his slender fingers holding the metal head of the Scepter. He obsessively sniffed the fading scent of cedar in the air, a fragrance that eroded his heart like a fatal poison.
The driver, head lowered, asked, "The villa in Cloud Summit Bend has been prepared—right next to the address you mentioned. Would you like to go and see the person you want to see directly?"
See the person he wanted to see?
