Shen Le froze before the ten-lane-wide traffic, layered upon layer, spiraling and looping back on itself.
He wrestled for quite a while between "fly across," "turn invisible and fly across," and "find somewhere to tunnel underground" before quickly backing away and ducking into a side alley.
He looked around and found a corner that seemed secluded. The moment he stepped in, a bizarre sour stench hit him so hard it nearly knocked him over.
Before he could retreat or raise a wind barrier to disperse the smell, a filthy claw had already grabbed at his collar. "@#$%----"
Shen Le: ???
The slurred words came with a heavy accent. They might have been English—of course, they could also have been Spanish or some other language. In any case, Shen Le had no idea what the person was saying.
Before he could react, there was a soft pop beside him. The other person reflexively jerked his hand back, staggered two steps away, and fell to the ground with a thud, convulsing. "Qing Deng!"
Push him away if you want, but don't hurt him! Shen Le shouted inwardly.
[I—I didn't mean to hurt him!] The bluish-white ball of light drifted out unsteadily and circled Shen Le once.
[I just wanted to build up some static electricity and make him let go! Who knew he was so bad with electricity! This guy, this guy isn't high, is he----]
It certainly looked that way to Shen Le. Skin and bones, deeply sunken eye sockets, and that strange sour reek—he looked exactly like the people in the anti-drug films Shen Le's school had shown when he was little.
When he looked up, seven or eight people came swaying down the alley toward him. Three parts human, seven parts ghost, they stretched their hands out at him.