In Tokyo during the rainy season, the air is like a wet towel that can't be wrung out, stickily wrapping everyone. I sit alone in a corner of the jazz bar "Dig," sipping whiskey on the rocks. Under the dim light, Charlie Parker's saxophone is mournful, as if it's trying to suck all the air out of your lungs.
Zhao Xunjin's name, now etched as a chilling obituary, is embedded in the precipitous cliffs of Mount Hua, like an eternal footnote. But during the days of his disappearance, his fate was like a mirror, reflecting countless possibilities, and in each reflection, pushing the truth into a deeper mist.
"My cat food is gone again!" Old Wang, leaning on his crutch, his voice piercing the evening quiet. He stared at the surveillance screen in front of him, specially installed to protect his "treasure" - an orange cat named "Mimi."
The screen showed an empty corridor, only the dim yellow light shining quietly. This was the third time this month, a whole large bag of cat food, vanishing without a trace. Old Wang suspected someone was stealing it. He had more than once waited in ambush in the corridor, but each time he came up empty.