Milu explained. It was the hand of an adult White man. Desiccated. An old bite scar marked the webbing between thumb and forefinger. Between the fingers, a folded card.
The card was white, exquisite, with filigree cut edges. The cover bore embossed gold lettering — a blessing — and the card carried its own fragrance. In every way, it resembled a high-end greeting card from any fine stationery boutique.
When the courier box was opened, that grotesque hand had been twisted into a fixed position — extended forward, offering the card, like an invitation.
The card was opened. Inside, one line.
— You are next.
Milu mused: “If it were me, I’d cut individual letters out of newspapers and paste them into a sentence to conceal the handwriting.”
But whoever sent it had no interest in concealment. The line was handwritten, in smooth, flowing strokes.
Wei Lai asked: “Did she report it to the police?”
“Yes. Optimistic estimate — they might solve it in ten years.”
A hand, desiccated, easy to carry, able to travel far. It could have come from anywhere White men lived. There were countless unidentified bodies that couldn’t be matched to a single hand, let alone tracked back to the origin of just one.
“How did Miss Cen react?”
“She had no particular reaction.”
Wei Lai thought he had misheard.
Milu added: “Truly no particular reaction. It was her cleaning woman who called the police — not Cen Jin herself. She said she had received a reeking cat carcass before, a wax human head drenched in fake blood, and a tangled mass of hair soaking in an unidentified liquid. By comparison, a desiccated hand was relatively restrained — at least it didn’t turn anyone’s stomach.”
Wei Lai was speechless for a long moment.
To inspire this degree of hatred, there had to be a reason, surely?
Milu speculated: “It’s probably related to her profession.”
Related to her profession?
“Does aid work in Africa generate this kind of animosity?”
Milu shook his head: “That was a long time ago. As you know, many people who return from conflict zones suffer severe psychological trauma. After leaving Ka Long, Miss Cen completely withdrew from aid organizations. What she does now is…”
He furrowed his brow, searching for a more precise description: “A writer… a social commentator. Yes — an independent social commentator.”
“The sharp-tongued kind?” Wei Lai was starting to form a picture.
“Sharp-tongued” was far too gentle a word for it. Milu gave a dry laugh: “Her articles are like ice picks — they punch fifteen or twenty holes in you in quick succession, blood spraying out of each one.”
“Who has she gone after?”
“The Italian Mafia. Colombian drug cartels. Luxury brands that conduct cruel animal experiments. Government officials. Corrupt police. Members of religious extremist organizations… Basically anyone you can think of, she has antagonized.”
Understood. With that track record, whatever she received was hardly surprising.
“She must be fairly well known?”
“How did you know?” Milu was taken aback. “She has a column — in the industry… she’s reasonably well-known.”
Wei Lai smiled: “If she’s well-known, anyone who moves against her has to weigh the public impact. If she weren’t, she’d already be dead.”
His sense of Cen Jin was beginning to shift.
Her courage was admirable, no question. But he didn’t particularly admire the act of throwing oneself against an immovable force — he believed in letting results speak, in strategy and measured action. Unless she had an entire platoon of mercenaries behind her, firing arrows recklessly at every powerful enemy in the world — besides putting herself directly under a collapsing wall — what was the point?
Even a social commentator had to value her own life. Survival, after all, was the first priority.
Milu glanced at his watch — a child’s plastic wristwatch, the hands tipped with Mickey Mouse heads.
“If you’re agreeable, shall we head over now? It’s nearly time for the meeting.”
The specifics were still unclear to Milu — the introduction had come through an industry intermediary who had specified a top-tier operative and flagged a few keywords: in-person meeting, confidential, money no object.
Wei Lai felt inclined to take the job.
It was work, after all.
---
They took to the main road. Finally, people appeared here and there, and the occasional car. Sometimes an oncoming vehicle’s headlights swept through the world, turning everything suddenly, briefly brilliant.
Milu talked at him intermittently.
“Ran out of money again?”
“Mm.”
“You only ever come back for work when you’ve run out of money!”
A tone of grievance, of lamenting someone who refused to try harder: “Look at Ke Ke Shu — buys property, buys cars, invests in stocks and currency. He dresses better than his own clients.”
Wei Lai had heard about this. On several recent jobs, Ke Ke Shu had shown up head-to-toe in luxury brands, making his understated high-profile clients look like assistants by comparison. A client had complained once. Ke Ke Shu had replied in his unhurried way: “Personal preference. Any of your business?”
But why should he need to emulate Ke Ke Shu? To each his own path. One mountain does not copy the shape of another — and besides, they weren’t even the same species of tree.
Wei Lai changed the subject: “In your view, who might be threatening Cen Jin?”
It was his professional responsibility to sketch out a rough range of suspects.
Milu had read Cen Jin’s recent social commentary and had a hunch: “In the last two months, she published four consecutive articles opposing female circumcision in certain parts of Africa.”
A car nearby blared its horn, the sound clashing against Milu’s voice, and what arrived in Wei Lai’s ears was fragmented and incomplete.