113 Furong Street.
Furong Street was hardly a thriving thoroughfare.
Nor was number 113 some grand residence with sprawling courtyards. It was an old, utterly inconspicuous three-story brick-and-stone building tucked deep inside the neighborhood, with nothing remarkable about it.
A red-haired young man strolled down the long street and paused briefly outside number 113. After entering, he took out an elegantly packaged lunch box and plunged into a nearby alley.
He changed direction and doubled back several times without any discernible pattern in the maze of alleys. Only after cautiously confirming that no one was following him did he slip like a ghost through an inconspicuous hidden door off to the rear of the alley, its color almost identical to the wall.
Beyond the door was a steep, narrow staircase, barely wide enough for one person, leading straight to the basement.
The basement was dim, lit only by an old gas lamp in the corner that gave off a feeble glow.
The air was stale, laden with dust, mildew, and a trace of an odd scent resembling sulfur mingled with searing metal. Someone had done their utmost to suppress it, yet could not conceal it completely.
The small space was sparsely furnished, with only a hard plank bed, a battered wooden table, and two chairs.
Beside the table, a gaunt, stooped figure sat with his back to the door. By the lamplight, he was intently shaving a piece of dark-red dried meat from some unknown beast with a small, rust-covered knife.
The hunched figure wore a gray cloth outfit washed almost white. His hair was sparse and graying, his movements slow. He looked like an ordinary old man with one foot in the grave.
The instant the red-haired young man pushed open the door, the old man's knife did not