Dusk.
The sky full of sunset casts the entire Old Factory Street in a warm orange hue.
This is the busiest time in the old district.
Workers leaving work ride electric scooters, honking as they weave through the narrow alleys.
Children leaving school, backpacks on their backs, chase and play in groups.
Street vendors setting up skewer stands barely opened, waiting for night to fully fall.
Several floors of the tubular building have windows wide open, the clanking sound of cooking incessantly streaming.
The thick smell of oil smoke, mixed with the aroma of soy sauce, scallions, and ginger, rushes upwards.
Top floor, room 908.
In stark contrast to the bustling scene below filled with the scent of life, it is eerily quiet here.
No lights are turned on in the room, creating a dim and oppressive atmosphere.
The last light of sunset slips through the curtain's gaps, casting narrow stripes of light on the floor.
Beyond that, there is only deep shadow.
