The thin, unnervingly precise finger of Little Sheng remained pointed, unwavering, at Zhang Wei's chest. The small, smoking incense stick in his other hand seemed to pulse with a faint, cold light that only Lin Yue and perhaps He Rong could perceive.
Zhang Wei, however, saw none of it. His world had shrunk to the black lacquered coffin, the shifting, indistinct form within, and the frantic, desperate machinations of his own mind.
Dawn was a promise whispered on the horizon, a faint lightening behind the distant, papered windows, but it offered no escape for Zhang Wei. He was trapped, not by physical bonds, but by the relentless, consuming grip of his intellect.
